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WOO'I) AND MAKRIKI) AND A'. 

rh»- Wrst-s ii-'w, and first tinitetl t-> tlit- Musir in 1822. 



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WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK IN 1822, 
B Y JOANNA BAILLIE. 



X he bride she is winsome and bonnie, 

Pier hair it is snooded sae sleek, 
And faithful and kind is her Johnie, 

Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. 
New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow, 
New pearlings, and plenishing too ; 
The bride that has a' to borrow, 
Has e'en right meikle ado. 
Woo'd and married and a', 
Woo'd and married and a', 
And is na she very weel aif 
To be woo'd and married and a' ? 

Her mother then hastily spak ; 

" The lassie is glaiket wi' pride, 
" In my pouches I had na a plack 

" The day that I was a bride. 
" E'en tak' to your wheel and be clever, 

" And draw out your thread in the sun ; 
" The gear that is gifted, it never 
" Will last like the gear that is won. 
" Woo'd and married and a', 
" Tocher and havings sae sma', 
" I think ye are very weel aff 
" To be woo'd and married and a'." 



" Toot, toot," quo' the grey-headed father, 

" She's less of a bride than a bairn ; 
" She's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather, 

" Wi' sense and discretion to learn. 
" Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, 

" As humour inconstantly leans, 
" A chiel maun be patient and steady 
" That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. 
" Kerchief to cover sae neat, 
" Locks the wind used to blaw ! 
" I'm baith like to laugh and to greet, 
" When I think o' her married at a'." 

Then out spak' the wily bridegroom, 

Weel waled were his wordies, I ween : 
" I'm rich, though my coffer be toom, 

" Wi' the blinks o' your bonny blue een ; 
" I'm prouder o' thee by my side, 

" Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few, 
" Than if Kate o' the craft were my bride, 
" Wi' purfles and pearlings enew. 
" Dear and dearest of ony, 
" Ye're woo'd and booket and a', 
" And do ye think scorn o' your Johnie, 
" And grieve to be married at a' ?" 



She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled, 

And she looket sae bashfully down ; 
The pride o' her heart was beguiled, 

And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown ; 
She twirled the tag o' her lace, 

And she nippet her boddice sae blue ; 
Syne blinket sae sweet in his face, 
And aff like a mawkin she flew. 
Woo'd and married and a', 
Married and carried awa' ; 
She thinks hersel' very weel aff 
To be woo'd and married and a'. 



VOL. III. 



OH ! THE BROAD SWORDS OF OLD SCOTLAND. 

FROM THE MANUSCRIPT OF 

J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ. 

PRESENTED BY HIM TO THE EDITOR, AND HERE FIRST PUBLISHED, 

1822. 



AIR, OH! THE BOAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND, 

Though an English Air may be thought out of place in a Scottish Collection, 
yet the Editor hopes that the introduction of this excellent one, in union 
with a Song so thoroughly Scottish, the one so happily adapted to the 
other, needs no apology. 

JM ovv there's peace on the shore, and there's calm on the sea, 
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free, 
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee ; 

Oh ! the broad swords of old Scotland, 

And oh the old Scottish broad swords. 

Old Sir Ralph Abercrombie, the good and the brave — 
Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave, 
Whose libation falls slow as we honour his grave ; 
Oh ! the broad swords, &c. 

Tho' he died not like him amidst Victory's roar, 
Tho' disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore, 
Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore ; 
Oh ! the broad swords, &c. 

Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall claim, 
We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name, 
The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham ; 
Oh 1 the broad swords, &c. 

Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth, 
Count the stars in the clear cloudless sky of the north, 
Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth ; 
All the broad swords, &c. 

The highest in splendour, the humblest in place, 
Stand united in honour, as kindred in race, 
For the Private is brother in blood to his Grace, 
Oh ! the broad swords, &c. 

Ev'n a Huntly will joy that one bumper hath flow'd, 
For himself and the meanest e'er crimson 'd the sod, 
When he drew by his side, for his king and his God, 
The deadly broad sword, &c. 

Then sacred to each and to all let it be, 
Here's a health to the heroes whose swords kept us free, 
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee ; 
Oh ! the broad swords, &c. 



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=E=£ 



THE BRAES OF BALLENDEN. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY DR BLACKLOCK. 



Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain 

One ev'ning reclin'd, to discover his pain. 

So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe, 

The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountains to flow ; 

Rude winds with compassion. could hear him complain ; 

Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain. 

How happy, he cried, my moments once flew, 

Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd on my view ! 

These eyes then with pleasure the dawn could survey, 

Nor smiled the fair morning more cheerful than they ; 

Now scenes of distress please only my sight — 

I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light. 

Thro' changes, in vain, relief I pursue; 
All, all, but conspire my grief to renew : 
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair, 
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air; 
But love's ardent fever burns always the same, 
No winter can cool it, no summer inflame. 

But see the pale moon all clouded retires ; 

The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires : 

I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind, 

Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind ; 

Ah wretch ! how can life thus merit thy care, 

Since length'ning its moments but lengthens despair? 



PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU, 

OR, THE PIPE SUMMONS OF DONALD THE BLACK. 
WRITTEN FOB ALBYn's ANTHOLOGY, 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART- 

AND HERE PUBLISHED BY EXPRESS PERMISSION. 



This is a very ancient Pibroch belonging to the Clan 
M'Donald.and supposed to refer to the expedition of 
Donald Balloch, who in 1431 launched from the isles 
with a considerable force, invaded Lochaber, and at 
Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar 
and Caithness, though at the head of an army superior 
to his own. 

Xibroch of Donuil Dhu' 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy ; 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong- hand that bears one. 

Leave untented the herd, 

The flock without shelter; 
Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 

The bride at the altar. 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges ; 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broad swords and targes. 

Come as the winds come, when 

Forests are rended ; 
Come as the waves come, when 

Navies are stranded ; 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume, 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ; 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Knell for the onset ! 



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Vol: 3. 



WISHAW'S FAVOURITE. 

THE AIR COMPOSED BY MR MARSHALL. 
THE SONG FROM A MS. OF BURNS. 



U my Love's like the red red rose 
That's newly sprung in June ; 

my Love's like the melodie 
That's sweetly playM in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep, so deep in love am I ; 
And I can love thee still, my dear, 

'Till a' the seas gang dry — As fair art thou, fyc. 

'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt with the sun, — 

1 will love thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee well, my only Love, 

O fare thee well a little while, 
And I will come again, my Love, 

Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile And fare thee, &c. 

VOL. III. B 



6 

MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 

BY BURNS, 

THE FIRST STANZA AND THE CHORUS EXCEPTED. 



This Doted freebooter was executed at Inverness about the beginning of the last 
century. When he came to the fatal tree, he played the tune to which he has 
bequeathed his name upon a favourite violin, and, holding up the instrument, 
offered it to any of his clan who would undertake to play the tune over his 
body at his lyke-wake ; as none answered, he dashed it to pieces on the exe- 
cutioner's head, and flung himself from the ladder. The following are the wild 
stanzas, grounded, however, upon some traditional remains,* which Burns 
has put into the mouth of this desperado. 

-T arewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 
The wretch's destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long — 
On yonder gallows-tree. 

Chorus — Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 
Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He play'd a spring, and danced it round, 
Below the gallows-tree. 

O what is death but parting breath ? 

On many a bloody plain 
I've dared his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! — Sae rantingly, Sfc. 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland 

But I'll brave him at a word. — Sae rantingly, fyc. 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife, 

I die by treacherie ; 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. — Sae rantingly, fyc. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! — Sae rantingly, fyc. 

* We have heard some of those recited, particularly one which begins 

Now farewell house, and farewell friends, 

And farewell wife and bairns ; 
There's nae repentance in my heart, 

The fiddle's in my arms. 



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Vol » 3, l * ' *"" * 



1. JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

A Border Melody, with new Kvmf Jfe an Aocompt first pnblishM i n 18 22 . 




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Vol: 5 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

A BORDER MELODY. 

The first Stanza of this Ballad is ancient : The others were 
written for Albyn's Anthology, 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

AND AKE HEBE PUBLISHED BT EXPBESS PERMISSION. 



Why weep ye by the tide, Ladye, 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride : 
And ye sail be his bride, Ladye, 

Sae comely to be seen." — 
But ay she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" Now let this wilful grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen." — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa', 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" A chain o' gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you the foremost o' them a' 

Sail ride our forest queen." — 
But ay she loot the tears down fa', 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 

The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there ; 
They sought her both by bower and ha', 

The Lady was not seen I 
She's o'er the border, and awa 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



8 



O WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, 
MY LAD. 

WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY B URNS. 



y) whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 
But warily tent when ye come to court me, 
And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na coming to me, 
And come as ye were na coming to me. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 
Aye vow and protest that ye carena for me, 
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho' joking ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 







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ETTK1CK BANKS. 



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ETTRICK BANKS. 



vJn Ettrick banks in a simmer's night, 

At gloaming-, when the sheep drave hame, 
I met my lassie braw and tight, 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane : 
My heart grew light — I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck, 
And kiss'd and clapt her there fu' lang, 

My words they were na mony feck. 

Said I, my lassie, will ye gae 

To the Highland hills and be my bride ? 
I'll bigg thy bower aneath the brae, 

By sweet Loch-Gary's silver tide. 
Our Highland hills, tho' bare and bleak, 

Have bonny glens and shaws between, 
Where blooms the wild rose like your cheek, 

And blue bells like your downcast een.* 

All day when we have wrought enough, 

When winter frosts and snaws begin, 
Soon as the sun gaes west the loch, 

At night when ye sit down to spin, 
I'll screw my pipes, and play a spring, 

And thus the weary night we'll end, 
Till the tender kid and lamb-time bring 

Our pleasant simmer back again. 

Syne when the trees are in their bloom, 

And gowans glent o'er ilka field, 
I'll meet my lass amang the broom, 

And lead her to my simmer shield. 
There, far frae a' their scornfu' din, 

That make the kindly hearts their sport, 
We'll laugh, and kiss, and dance, and sing, 

And gar the langest day seem short ! 



* The Editor thinking this stanza, by a friend, preferable to 
that printed in the former editions of the song, has substituted 
the one for the other ; but as some, perhaps, may prefer the 
old stanza, it is subjoined. 

I said, my lassie, will ye go 

To the Highland hills, the Erse to learn ? 
I'll gie thee baith a cow and ewe 

When ye come to the brig of Earn. 
At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash, 

And herrings at the Broomy-Law ; 

Cheer up your heart, my bonny lass, 

There's gear to win we never saw ! 

VOL. III. C 



10 



SAW YE MY FATHER. 



THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 



BY BURNS. 



W here are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danced to the lark's early song? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ; 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care I 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no t the bees humming round the gay roses. 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover ; 

Yet long, long too well have I known, 
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 

Is Jenny — fair Jenny alone ! 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Not hope dare a comfort bestow ; 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



10. 



SAW YE MY FATHER. 



Hn\iln . 




Vol: 3 



II. 



Down the rukn, davi£ 



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Vol: 3. 



11 

DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 
BY ROBERT CRAWFORD, ESQ. 



W hen trees did bud, and fields were green, 

And broom bloom'd fair to see ; 
When Mary was complete fifteen, 

And love laugh'd in her e'e ; 
Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did move 

To speak her mind thus free, 
" Gang down the burn, Davie, love, 

" And I shall follow thee." 

Now Davie did each lad surpass 

That dwelt on this burn side, 
And Mary was the bonniest lass — 

Just meet to be a bride ; 
Her cheeks were rosie, red and white, 

Her e'en were bonnie blue ; 
Her looks were like Aurora bright, 

Her lips like dropping dew. 

As down the burn they took their way, 

He told his tender tale, 
Where all the opening sweets of May 

Adorn'd the flowery dale. 
" Not May in all her maiden pride 

" Is half sae sweet as thee ; 
" O say thou'lt be my ain dear bride ; 

" Thou'rt a' the world to me." 

' Tho' Sandy ca's me sweet and fair, 

' And boasts his sheep and kiue ; 
1 In vain he seeks me late and air, 

' My heart is only thine I ' 
" Oh ! rapturous sounds 1 my first best Love, 

" Come take my plighted hand, 
" My faith and troth I'll fondly prove 

" In wedlock's holy band." 



* \f.* The last two stanzas are by the Editor, and are in- 
troduced instead of the last stanza in his folio edition of the 
song ; which, though a decided improvement on the song as 
originally written, did not bring it to the desirable conclusion 
here given to it. — 1822. 



12 

TH£ WEARY PUND OF TOW. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 

B Y MRS HUNTER, 

AND HERE FIRST UNITED TO THE MUSIC. 



-He's far away, he's far away, O may he come in happy hour, 

But surely he will come ; My drooping- soul to cheer ! 

Ye moments fly, pass swiftly by, For him I'll deck my cypress bow'r 

And bring my soldier home. With roses all the year. 

Alas ! I look, and look in vain, Alas ! I look, and look in vain, 

And listen to each sound, And listen to each sound, 

The joyless sun declines again, The joyless sun declines again, 

And so the days go round. And so the days go round. 

He's far away, &c. He's far away, &c. 

The heavy clouds of sorrow fled, 

How bright the sun appears, 
But cheerless were the beams he shed 

Seen dimly through our tears. 
Now, hope again shall wake the strings 

To pleasure's jocund lay, 
When time upon his dusky wings 

Bears all our cares away. 
He's far away, &c. 



THE FOLLOWING SONG TO THE SAME AIR IS 
BY BURNS. 



Ti *v.„ .. nn »„ ™,r>A There sat a bottle in a bole, 

he weary pund, the weary puna, 

The weary pund o' tow ; Ayont the ingle low, 

I thought my wife would end her life And aye she took the tither sook, 

Before she span her tow. To drook the stoul 7 tow - 

I bought my wife a stane o' lint, The weary pund, &c. 

As good as e'er did grow, u p or shame !" said I, " you dirty dame, 

And a' that she could make o' that << Gae spin your tap o' tow " — 

Was ae poor pund o' tow. g ne took the rock, and wi' a knock 

The weary pund, &c. She brake it o'er my pow ! 

The weary pund, &c. 

At length her feet — I sang to see't, 

Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 
And ere I wed another jade, 
i I'll wallop in a tow. 

The weary pund, &c. 



12. 



THE WEARY PUND O' TOW. 

The* words nt-w 1822. 



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Vol: 3 








H K 



13. 



AIR BY S. CLARKE. 



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Fare -well dear mistress 



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l)e—.priv»d of thee his 




Vol: 5. H 



13 



FAREWELL, DEAR MISTRESS OF MY SOUL. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY BURNS. 



r arewell, dear mistress of my soul, 

The measured time is run I 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole 

So marks his latest sun ! 
To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall thy poor wand'rer hie ? 
Deprived of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 
She, the fair sun of all her sex, 

Has bless'd my glorious day ; 
And ne'er shall glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray. 



VOL. III. 



14 



THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY THE REV. MR SKINNER. 



were I able to rehearse 
My ewie's praise in proper verse, 
I'd sound it forth as loud and fierce 
As ever piper's drone could blaw : 
My ewie wi' the crookit horn, 

A' that kent her could ha'e sworn, 
Sic a ewie ne'er was born 
Here about nor far awa. 

1 needed neither tar nor keel 
To mark her upo' hip or heel, 
Her crookit hornie did as weel 
To ken her by amang them a'. 
Cauld nor hunger never dang her, 
Wind nor weet could never wrang her- 
Ance she lay a week and langer 
Forth aneath a wreath o' snaw. 

When ither ewies lap the dyke 
And eat the kail for a' the tyke, 
My ewie never play'd the like, 
But tyc'd about the barn wa' : 
A better or a thriftier beast 
Nae honest man need weel ha'e wist; 
For, silly thing 1 she never mist 
To ha'e ilk year a lamb or twa. 

I looked aye at even for her, 
Lest mishanter should come o'er her, 
Or the fumart might devour her, 
Gin the beastie stay'd awa'. 
My ewie wi' the crookit horn 
Weel deserved baith girss and corn j 
Sic a ewie ne'er was born, 
Here about nor far awa'. 



Yet last week, for a' my keeping — 
I canna speak o't without greeting — 
A villain came when I was sleeping, 
Staw my ewie, horn, and a' ! 
I sought her sail- upo' the morn — 
And, down aneath a buss o' thorn, 
I got my ewie's crookit horn ; 
But my ewie was awa'. 

gin I had the loon that did it, 

1 ha'e sworn, as well as said it, 
Tho' the parson should forbid it, 
I would gi'e his neck a thraw. 

I never met wi' sic a turn 
As this since ever I was born ; 
My ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
Silly ewie ! stown awa' ! 

had she died o' crook or cauld, 
As ewies die when they grow auld, 
It wadna been, by mony fauld, 
Sae sair a heart to ane o' 's a' ; 
For a' the claith that we ha'e worn, 
Frae her and her's sae aften shorn, 
The loss o' her we could ha'e borne, 
Had fair strae death ta'en her awa'. 

But thus, poor thing ! to lose her life 
Aneath a greedy villain's knife ! 

1 'm really fleyt that our gudewife 
Will never win aboon't ava' I 

01 a' ye bards be-north Kinghorn, 
Call up your muses, let them mourn 
Our ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
Stown frae us, and fell'd and a' ! 



14. THE EWIE WI* THE CROOKED HORN. 



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sound it out as loud and fierce, As e_ver Pi-per's drone could blaw. 



,u. CHOKUS. 



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My E - wie wi' the crook- ed horn, A' thai ken'd her could hae sworn; 



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My E_wie wi* the crook- ed horn, A' that ken'd her could hae sworn j 



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Sic a E— wie ne'er was horn, Here a-bojjt nor far away. 



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Vol: 3. 






15. 



MARY'S DREAM. 



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from! the east_ern summit shed, Her sil_vs-r light on tow'r and tree. 



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soft, and low a voice was heard, Say Ma — rtv weep no more for me. 




Vol: 3. 



15 

MARY'S DREAM. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 
BY ALEXANDER LOWE. 



The Maut here alluded to is generally supposed to have been 
Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the Laird of Airds in 
Galloway. 

-L he moon had climb'd the highest hill 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And from the eastern summit shed 

Her silver light o'er tow'r and tree : 
When Mary laid her down to sleep, 

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; 
When soft and low a voice was heard 

Say, " Mary, weep no more for me 1 " 

She from her pillow gently raised 

Her head, to ask who there might be — 
She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand, 

With visage pale and hollow e'e ; 
" O Mary dear 1 cold is my clay, 

It lies beneath a stormy sea ; 
Far, far, from thee, I sleep in death; 

So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 

" Three stormy nights and stormy days 

We toss'd upon the raging main ; 
And long we strove our bark to save — 

But all our striving was in vain. 
Ev'n then, when horror chill'd my blood, 

My heart was fill'd with love for thee: 
The storm is past, and I at rest, ' 

So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 

" O maiden dear, thyself prepare — 

We soon shall meet upon that shore, 
Where love is free from doubt and care, 

And thou and I shall part no more." 
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled, 

No more of Sandy could she see ; 
But soft the passing spirit said, 

" Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !" 



16 



JOHNY'S GREY BREEKS. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 

BY BURNS. 

On his accidentally seeing Miss Alexander of Ballochmyle, 
while he was wandering in the favourite haunts of his Muse, 
on the banks of the Ayr. It is this powerfully vivid paint- 
ing from nature, that gives such an exquisite charm to the 
songs of our Bard, and points their way irresistibly to the 
heart. 



J- was even — the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearls hung ; 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets along ! 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature list'ning seem'd the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang 

Among the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy : 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile ; 
The lily's hue and rose's dye 

Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild, 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild : 
But Woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile : 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil, 
Could 1, to bless my cottage, gain* 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle! 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine : 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And ev'ry day has joys divine 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

The line was originally, " And nightly to my bosom strain.' 



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JOHNY'S GRF.Y B REEKS 



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Vol: 3. 



17. 



WAE'S M^i HEART THAI \v K SHOl I.D SUNDER. 

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17 



WOE'S MY HEART THAT WE SHOULD SUNDER. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



B Y ALLAN BAMSA Y. 



W ith broken words, and downcast eyes, 

Poor Colin spoke his passion tender; 
And, parting- with his Lucy,* cries, 

" Ah ! woe's my heart that we should sunder '. 
To others I am cold as snow, 

But kindle with thine eyes like tinder; 
From thee with pain I'm forced to go — 

It breaks my heart that we should sunder. 

" Chain'd to thy charms, I cannot range, 
No beauty new my love shall hinder ; 

Nor time nor place shall ever change 

My vows, though we're obliged to sunder. 



" The image of thy graceful air, 

And beauties which invite our wonder : 

Thy lively wit, and prudence rare, 
Shall still be present, tho' we sunder. 

" Dear nymph, believe thy swain in this— 

You'll ne'er engage a heart that's kinder : 
Thenseal a promise with a kiss — 

Always to love me though we sunder. 
" Ye Gods ! take care of my dear lass, 

That as I leave her I may find her ; 
When that bless'd time shall come to pass, 

We'll meet again, and never sunder!" 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR, 

B Y ALLAN RAMS A Y. 



opeak on — speak thus, and still my grief, 

Hold up a heart that's sinking under 
Those fears that soon will want relief, 

When Pate must from his Peggy sunder. 
A gentler face, and silk attire, 

A lady rich in beauty's blossom, 
Alack, poor me ! will now conspire, 

To steal thee from thy Peggy's bosom. 

Nae mair the Shepherd wha excell'd 

The rest, whose wit made them to wonder, 

Shall now his Peggy's praises tell ; 
Ah ! I can die, but never sunder. 



Ye meadows where we often stray 'd, 

Ye banks where we were wont to wander, 

Sweet-scented rucks, round which we play'd, 
You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder ! 

Again, ah !, shall I never creep 

Around the knowe, with silent duty, 
Kindly to watch thee, while asleep, 

And wonder at thy manly beauty ! 
Hear, Heaven, while solemnly I vow, 

Tho' thou shouldst prove a wandering lover, 
Thro' life to thee I shall prove true, 

Nor be a wife to anv other ! 



* In the Author's edition of this song, the name is Grizie, which the Editor has taken the liberty of changing into 

one that sounds more agreeably. 



VOL. III. 



18 

FEE HIM, FATHER. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
B Y BURNS. 



X hou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Often hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye— 
I must see thee never, Jamie, 

I will see thee never ! 



Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love another maid 

While my heart is breaking; 
Soon my weary eyes I'll close, 
Never more to waken, Jamie, 

Never more to waken. 



THE OLD SONG TO THE SAME AIR. 



' Saw ye Johnny coming,' quo' she, 

• Saw ye Johnny coming; 
' Saw ye Johnny coming,' quo' she, 

' Saw ye Johnny coming : 
' Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, 

' And his dogie running ; 
1 Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, 

« And his dogie running,' quo' she, 

' And his dogie running ? 

' O fee him, father, fee him,' quo' she, 

< Fee him, father, fee him ; 
' O fee him, father, fee him,' quo' she, 

; Fee him, father, fee him ; 
« For he is a gallant lad, 

' And a weel-doing, 
' And a' the wark about the town 

' Gaes wi' me when I see him,' quo' she, 

' Gaes wi' me when I see him.' 



" O what will I do wi' him," quoth he, 

" What will I do wi' him ? 
" He has ne'er a sark upon his back, 

" And I ha'e nane to gi'e him." 
i I ha'e twa sarks into my kist, 

' And ane o' them I'll gi'e him ; 
And for a merk of mair fee, 

' Dinna stand wi' him,' quo' she, 

' Dinna stand wi' him. 

' For weel do I lo'e him,' quo' she, 

' Weel do I lo'e him ; 
' For weel do I lo'e him,' quo' she, 

' Weel do I lo'e him : 
' O fee him, father, fee him,' quo' she, 

' Fee him, father, fee him ; 
<■ He'll had the pleugh, thrash in the barn. 

' And crack wi' me at e'en', quo' she, 

' And crack wi' me at e'en.' 



m. 



KI.K HIM, KATHK.R. 




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Thou hast left me ev-_er, Ja_ mie 9 Thou has! lefi m 



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19. 



AY WAKING O! 







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get, Far thinking of mv dear_ie, 



O tin's Love this Love! 



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get, For thinkingof my dear- ie, O this Love this Love! 



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19 



AYE WAKING, O! 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK, 

ON CHLOR1S BEING ILL, 

BY B URNS, 
THE FIRST STANZA EXCEPTED. 



The heroine of this admirable Song was Miss Lokimer at 
Craigieburn, near Moffat. 

Aye waking, O ! 

Waking aye, and weary, 
Rest I cannot get, 

For thinking on my dearie. 
O this love, this love ! 
Life to me how dreary ! — 
When I sleep I dream ; 
Oh 1 when I wake I'm eerie. 
O this love, this love ! 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul's delight. 

Is on her bed of sorrow. 
Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 
O this love, this love ! 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul's delight 

Is on her bed of sorrow. 
Ev'ry hope is fled, 

Ev'ry fear is terror ; 
Slumber ev'n I dread, 

Ev'ry dream is horror. 
O this love, this love ! 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul's delight 

Is on her bed of sorrow. 
Hear me, Powers divine ! 

Oh ! in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Spare, O spare my love ! * 

* The line in the first Stanza, " Life to me how dreary ! - 
and the lines printed in Italics, are supplied by the Editor for 
the sake of the Music. 



20 



THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY B URNS. 



This Song was written on Miss Jeany Cruikshank, now 
Mrs Henderson, Jedburgh, daughter of one of the Mas- 
ters of the High School, Edinburgh, a friend of the Bard. 

A. rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

All on a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades of dawn are fled, 
In all its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest — 
The dew sat chilly on her breast, 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure of the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string, or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tents thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay 
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



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21 

THE LOOKING-GLASS. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. 



-L hese rural shades may sometimes please, 

But are not always charming ; 
For dearly though I love my ease, 

Yet dulness is alarming ; 
Why must I bid the town adieu — 

For one whole season sever ? 
I Nature like as well as you, 

But need not like for ever. 

I like the moon — her lonely ray 

Can sooth my spirits weary ; 
Yet routes, and balls, and lustres gay, 

Have never fail'd to cheer me. 
Sweet sings the lark while o'er his nest 

The morning beam is slanting ; 
And yet the truth must be confest, 

An opera is enchanting. 
Why must I bid, fyc. 

How pleasant 'tis to sit and view 

Yon lake at distance lying ! 
Yet places, faces, fashions new 

I like, there's no denying. 
Give me my bower where roses bloom, 

With nightingales complaining — 
Yet beaux there are who might presume 

To be as entertaining. 

Why must I bid, fyc. 

From route and ball, to lawn and grove, 

Through every pleasure ranging ; 
'Tis thus we happy mortals rove, 

Like Nature, ever changing! 
Keep moving still — nor ever long, 

Whate'er the pleasure, linger — 
So, if you please, we'll move my song, 

And call another singer. 
Why must I bid, fyc. 

VOL. III. F 



22 

THE RESOLVE. 

WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH 

POEM, 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BARONET. 

HEHE FIRST UNITED WITH THE MUSIC, BT PERMISSION. 



IVIy wayward fate I needs must plain, 

Though bootless be the theme ; 
I loved and was beloved again, 

Yet all was but a dream : 
For as her love was quickly got, 

So it was quickly gone ; 
No more I'll bask in flame so hot, 

But coldly dwell alone. 

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er, 

My fancy shall beguile 
By flattering word, or feigned tear, 

By gesture, look, or smile : 
No more I'll call the shaft fair shot 

Till it has fairly flown, 
Nor scorch me at a flame so hot ; 

I'll rather freeze alone. 

Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy 

In cheek, or chin, or brow, 
And deem the glance of woman's eye 

As weak as woman's vow : 
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart 

That is but lightly won ; 
I'll steel my heart to beauty's art, 

And learn to live alone. 

The flaunting torch soon blazes out, 

The diamond's ray abides ; 
The flame its glory hurls about, 

The gem its lustre hides ! 
Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine, 

And glow'd a diamond stone ; 
But, since each eye may see it shine, 

I'll darkling dwell alone. 

No waking dream shall tinge my thought 

With dyes so bright and vain ; 
No silken net, so slightly wrought, 

Shall tangle me again : 
No more I'll pay so dear for wit, 

I'll live upon mine own ; 
Nor shall wild passion trouble it — 

I'll rather dwell alone. 

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest — 

" Thy loving labour's lost ; 
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest, 

To be so strangely crost : 
The widow'd turtles matchless die, 

The phoenix is but one; 
They seek no loves — no more will I — 

I'll rather dwell alone." 



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HIGHLAND MARY. 

WRITTEN 
BY BURNS. 



The Air by Miss Lucy Johnston, afterwards Mrs Oswald 
of Achincruive. 

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 

Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 

O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 
Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
To live one day of parting love- 1 
Eternity cannot efface 
Those records dear of transports past, 
The image of our last embrace ; — 
Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
O'erhung with wild woods thickening green ; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 
Twined amorous round the ruptured scene : 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 

Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 



24 



THE WEE, WEE MAN. 



THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 



BY B URNS. 



Miss Lorijier was the heroine of this Song. 

yJ bonnie was yon rosy brier 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the ev'ning sun. 
Yon rose-buds in the morning dew, 

How pure, amang the leaves sae green : 
But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 
All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose how sweet and fair ; 
But love is far a sweeter flow'r 

Amid life's thorny path o' care. 
The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 

Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
And I the warld nor wish nor scorn — 

Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



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25 

LOGAN WATER. 

WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY BURNS. 



O Logan ! sweetly didst thou glide 
The day I was my Willie's hride ; 
And years sinsyne ha'e o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the summer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry hanks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month of May, 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs, 

The bees hum round the breathing flow'rs : 

Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 

And ev'ning tears are tears of joy : 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 

While Willie's far frae Lo^-an braes. 



Within yon milkwhite hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : — 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights, and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse in deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR, 

B Y JOHN MA YNE, 
AUTHOR OF THE POEM OF GLASGOW. 



Jjy Logan streams that rin sae deep, 
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep, 
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, 
Wi' my dear lad on Logan hraes. 
But wae's my heart ! these days are gane, 
And I wi' grief now herd alane, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan hraes I 

Nae mair at Logan kirk will he, 
Atween the preachings, meet wi' me, 
Meet wi' me, or, when its mirk, 
Convoy me harae frae Logan kirk. 

VOL. III. 



I weel may sing — these days are gane ! 
Frae kirk or fair I come alane, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes ! 

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, 
I dander dowie and forlane, 
Or sit beneath yon hawthorn tree, 
Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me. 
O could I see these days again I 
My lover skaithless and my ain ! 
Beloved by friends, at peace wi' faes, 
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes 1 

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26 



THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 

WRITTEN 
BY ALLAN RAMSAY. 



-1 HE lass of Patie's mill, 

So bonny, blythe, and gay, 
In spite of all ray skill, 

She stole my heart away. 
When tedding of the hay, 

Bareheaded on the green, 
Love 'midst her locks did play, 

And wanton'd in her een. 

Without the help of art, 

Like flovv'rs that grace the wild, 
She did her sweets impart 

W T hene'er she spoke or smiled. 
Her looks they were so mild, 

Free from affected pride, 
She me to love beguiled ; 

I wish'd her for my bride. 

O had I all the wealth 

That Hopeton's mountains fill,* 
Insured long life and health, 

And pleasure at my will : 
I'd promise and fulfil, 

That none but bonny she, 
The lass of Patie's mill, 

Should share the same wi' me. 



* Alluding to the Lead Hills, belonging to the Earl of Hope- 
ton, thirty-three miles south-west of Edinburgh. 

Ramsay's right to this Song having been questioned, the Editor 
shall here quote what Burns has left on record concerning it. 

" The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir 
" William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it of the 
" late John Earl of Loudon, I can on such authorities be- 
" lieve, 

" Allan Ramsat was residing at Loudon Castle with the then 
" Earl, father to Earl John ; and one forenoon, riding or 
" walking out together, his Lordship and Allan passed a 
" sweet romantic spot on Irvine Water, still called ' Patie's 
" Mill,' where a bonnie lass was ' tedding hay, bareheaded 
" on the green.' My Lord observed to Allan, that it 
" would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, 
" and lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, 
" which he produced at dinner." 



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27 



THE BLATHRIE O'T. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY BURNS. 



i- gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat ray death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 

"IVas not her golden ringlets bright, 
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew, 

Her heaving bosom, lily white — 
It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wiled, 
She cbarm'd my soul, I wist na how ; 

And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 
Came frae her een sae bonnie blue. 

But spare to speak, and spare to speed, — 
She'll, aiblins, listen to my vow : 

Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.* 

* The heroine of this beautiful song was MissUeffrey of 
Lochmaben, who married Mr Renwick, and accompanied him 
to New York, where she still lives, highly esteemed for her 
good sense and great suavity of manners. She is now a 
widow, and her son is Professor of Chemistry in Columbia 
College. 



28 



AN THOU WERT MINE AIN THING. 



An thou wert mine ain thing-, 

O I would love thee, I would love thee ; 

An thou wert mine ain thing-, 

How dearly would I love thee. 

Of race divine thou needs must be, 

Since naething- earthly equals thee ; 

For heaven's sake, O favour me, 

Wha only live to love thee. 

An thou wert my ain thing, &c. 
Sae lang's I had the use of light, 
I'd on thy beauties feast my sight, 
Syne in saft whispers through the night 
I'd tell how much I love thee. 

An thou wert mine ain thing, &c. 



Though I were number'd wi' the dead, 
My soul should hover round thy head ; 
I may be turn'd a silent shade, 
But ne'er can cease to love thee ! 

An thou wert mine ain thing, &c. 
Thy nightly dreams, thy lonely hours, 
Thy thoughtful seats in these sweet bow'rs, 
Thy ev'ning- walks 'mang dewy flow'rs 
I'd watch, and ever love thee. 

An thou wert mine ain thing, &c. 
And when at last, thou lovely maid ! — 
A drooping flow'r — thyself shalt fade, 
I'll watch thy gentle parting shade, 
And then for ever love thee ! 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR.* 



WRITTEN 



BY SMOLLETT. 



x iiy fatal shafts unerring move ; 

I bow before thine altar, Lov.e ! 

I feel thy soft resistless flame 

Glide swift through all my vital frame 

For while I gaze my bosom glows, 

My blood in tides impetuous flows ; 

Hope, fear, and joy, alternate roll, 

And floods of transport 'whelm my soul. 



My falt'ring tongue attempts in vain 
In soothing- murmurs to complain ; 
My tongue some secret magic ties ; 
My murmurs sink in broken sighs ! 
Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, 
And ever drop the silent tear, 
Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, 
Unfriended live, unpitied die ! 



* In singing the English Song to the Scottish Air, a quaver must be supplied for the beginning of the 
first and third lines of each stanza. 




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-\ c/ hiu'di.or g-Jwi, Donald C'XidV come a - gain. P» ' 




29 



DONALD CAIRD. 

WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BAROXET, AND HERE PUBLISHED BY EXPRESS PERMISSION. 



THE AIR COMPOSED FOR THE SONG BY THE EDITOR OF THIS WORK — 1822. 



UoNALD Caird can lilt and sing, 
Blythely dance the Highland fling ; 
Drink till the gudeman be blind, 
Fleech till the gudewife be kind ; 
Hoop a leglen, clout a pan, 
Or crack a pow wi* ony man; 
Tell the news in brugh or glen, 
Donald Caird 's come again. 

Donald Caird's come again ! 
Donald Caird's come again 1 
Tell the news in brugh or glen, 
Donald Caird's come again. 

Donald Caird can wire a maukin, 

Kens the wiles o* dun-deer staukin ; 

Leisters kipper, makes a shift 

To shoot a muirfowl in the drift ; 

Water- bailiffs, rangers, keepers, 

He can wauk when they are sleepers ; 

Not for bountith or reward, 

Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird. 

Donald Caird's come again ! 

Donald Caird's come again ! 

Gar the bagpipes hum amain, 

Donald Caird's come again! 

Donald Caird can drink a gill 
Fast as hostler wife can fill; 
Ilka ane that sells gude liquor 
Kens how Donald bends a bicker : 
When he's fou he's stout and saucy, 
Keeps the cantle of the cawsey ; 



Highland chief and Lawland laird 
Maun gie room to Donald Caird ! 

Donald Caird's come again ! 

Donald Caird's come again! 

Tell the news in brugh or glen, 

Donald. Caird's come again 1 

Steek the amrie, lock the kist, 
Else some gear may weel be mist; 
Donald Caird finds orra things 
Where Allan Giegor fand the taings ; 
Dunts of kebbuck, tates of woo, 
Whiles a hen, and whiles a sow, 
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard — 
'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird! 

Donald Caird's come again ! 

Donald Caird's come again ! 

Dinna let the Shirra ken 

Donald Caird's come again ! 

On Donald Caird the doom was stern, 
Craig to tether, legs to aim ; 
But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study, 
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie ! 
Rings of aim, and bolts of steel, 
Fell like ice frae hand and heel ! 
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again! 

Donald Caird's come again ! 

Donald Caird's come again ! 

Dinna let the Justice ken 

Donald Caird's come again ! 



ROB ROY. 



WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO THE EDITOR BY DAVID THOMSON, GALASHIELS, NOW FIRST PUBLISHED 1822. 



Ro 



Vob Macgregor's come again, 
Ilka ane thought dead and gane ; 
By a wizard's cantrip slight 
Rob again has seen the light. 
He appears in a' his glory, 
Laughing baith at Whig and Tory; 
Rob's a chief o* some regard, 
No a scamp like Donald Caird. 

Rob Macgregor's come again ! 

Rob Macgregor's come again ! 

Think ye does the Shirra ken 

Rob Macgregor's come again.* 

Bars o* iron and bolts o' steel 
Yield to Rob, for Rob's a deil ; 
Glasgow jail it canna haud him, 
No a beagle dares to daud him. 
Rob has keys to ilka prison, 
Turnkey-cousins by the dozen; 
Burrow bailies and their guard 
Shrink afore the Highland laird. 
Rob Macgrpgor's come again! 
Rob Macgregor's come again I 
Lowland bodies pay your kain, 
Rob Macgregor's come again ! 

Robin's wife's a wife o' mettle, 

Weel she guards auld Scotland's kettle ; 

Nought to Helen is a prize 

Like an imp of the excise 1 

A' the Highland hills in chorus, 

Sung the dirge of gauger Morris, 



A' the pack might weel be spared, 
Reavers waur than Donald Caird. 
Rob Macgregor's come again ! 
Rob Macgregor's come again 1 
Lomond wilds are a' his ain, 
We're fain to see him back again. 

Rob Macgregor dealt in cattle, 
But to pay them was a battle ; 
Robin took a shorter plan, 
Clear'd the marches like a man. 
Now he's king o' hill and dale, 
A' the Lennox pays black-mail. 
Soger lads be on your guard, 
Ye are na catching Donald Caird. 

Rob Macgregor's come again ! 

Rob Macgregor's come again ! 

We'll get back the days that's gane, 

Rob Macgregor's come again ! 

Robin Roy's caught at last, 
Bring the wuddie, haud him fast ; 
Robin loups and lakes the river, 
Lost for ance, and lost for ever; 
Jouking up, and jouking down, 
Like an otter swam the loon! 
Rob has baffled a' the guard, 
No sneak'd afflike Donald Caird. 

Rob Macgregor's come again ! 

Rob Macgregor's come again ! 

Highland blood, and Highland bane, 

Rob Macgregor's come again ! 



• Sir Walter Scott, who is so strongly suspected of the resuscitation of Rob, is the Shirra (Sheriff) of Selkirkshire. He dines 
generally once a-year with his worthy industrious neighbours, the Manufacturers of Galashiels ; and this and the preceding song 
commonly make a part of the dessert. 



VOL. 111. 



H 



30 



THE THREE MEN OF MORISTON. 



A JACOBITE BALLAD. 

FROM A MANUSCRIPT COMMUNICATED TO THE EDITOR BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, AND DOUBTLESS WRITTEN 

BY HIM; — NOW FIRST PUBLISHED — 1822. 



AIR, — FY, LET CS a' TO THE BRIDAL 

IN ovv cease of aukl ferlies to tell us, 

That happen'd nane living kens when ; 
I'll sing you of three noble fellows 

Wha lived in the wild Highland glen. 
The times were grown hard to brave Donald, 

For lost was Culloden's sad day ; 
The hearts o' the Chiefs were a' broken, 

And O ! but poor Donald was wae. 



Ae night tbey sat fearfu' o' danger, 

And snappet their kebbuck fu' keen, 
When in came a stately young stranger 

As ragged as man e'er was seen. 
They had na weel looket around them, 

'Till tears came happing like rain, 
" Your welcome, young Dugald M'Cluny, 

" For a' you see here is your ain." 



They keeket out o'er the wild correi, 

The towers of Clan-Ronald were gone ; 
The reek it hung red o'er Glengary, 

Lochaber was herried and lone ! 
They turn'd them about on the mountain, 

The last o' their shealings to see, 
" O hon a rie ! " cried poor Donald, 

" There's naething but sorrow for me !" 

Now our three noble lads are in hiding, 

Afar in Glenmoriston's height ; 
In the rock a' the day they are biding, 

And the moon is their candle by night. 
And oft their rash rising they rued it, 

As looking o'er ravage and death, 
And blamed their ain Prince, Charlie Stuart, 

For causing the Highlands sic skaith. 



Each kenn'd the brave wreck of Culloden, 

But dared not to mention his name, 
Lest one of the three had betray 'd him, 

And cover'd their country with shame. 
They served him with eager devotion, 

They clad him from shoulder to tae ; 
Spread his board from the moor and the ocean, 

And watch'd o'er him a' the lang day. 

They had not a plack in their coffer, 

They had not a ewe on the brae, 
Yet kenn'd o' mair gowd in their offer 

Than they could have carried away. 
Now crack o' your Grecian and Roman, 

We've cast them a' back in the shade ; 
Gi'e me a leal-hearted Macdonald 

Wi' nought but his dirk and his plaid. 



The sun shines sweet on the heather, 

When tempests are over and gane ; 
But honour shines bright in all weather, 

Through poverty, hardship, and pain. 
Tho' we had ne'er heard o' Clan-Ronald, 

Nor gallant Glengary 's wild sway, 
The names of the loyal Macdonalds 

Had flourish'd for ever and aye.* 



* The Editor ha3 given this excellent Jacobite Ballad as it came to him : but, though it commemorates three 
humble worthies only, it has been said that there were six of them; namely, the three trusty Macdonalds, Peter 
Grant, Hugh Chisholm, and Colin Frazer, by whom the Prince was concealed and supported in a cave in Glen- 
moriston for above five weeks. One of the Macdonalds went often in disguise into the English camp to procure 
some wheaten bread for their guest, and to pick up what intelligence he could: there he regularly heard at the 
drum-head, a proclamation in English and Gaelic of a reward of L. 30,000 to any one who would produce the Pre- 
tender dead or alive ; but, though the guardians of the cave had not a shilling among them all, they despised 
enriching themselves by an act of treachery. How painful it is to add, what the Editor has been assured is true, 
that one of those magnanimous poor fellows was afterwards hanged for stealing a cow ! On the ladder, he declared 
that he never had taken sheep or cow from any of his own clan or their friends, nor from those who had not 
risen against the House of Stuart; and all attempts to persuade him to acknowledge the justice of his sentence 
were fruitless. 



30. 



THE THRKK MKN OP MORTSTON 

N.iw I rst pohlisnM _ 1822. 




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31 

MAGGY LAUDER. 



W ha wadna be in love 

Wi' bonnie Maggy Lauder ? 
A piper met her gaun to Fife, 

And spier'd what was't they ca'd her ? 
Right scornfully she answer'd him — 

' Begone you hallanshaker ! 
' Jog on your gate, you bladderskate, 

' My name is Maggy Lauder.' 

" Maggy," quoth he, " and by my bags 

" I'm fidging fain to see thee ! 
" Sit down by me, my bonnie bird, 

" In troth I winna steer thee : 
" For I'm a piper to my trade, 

" My name is Rob the Ranter; 
" The lasses loup as they were daft 

" When I blaw up my chanter." 

' Piper,' quo' Meg, ' ha'e ye your bags, 

' Or is your drone in order? 
' If you be Rob, I've heard of you — 

' Live you upo' the Border ? 
' The lasses a,' baith far and near, 

' Have heard of Rob the Ranter ; 
' I'll shake my foot wi' right good-will, 

' Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.' 

Then to his bags he flew with speed, 

About the drone he twisted ; 
Meg up, and wallop'd o'er the green, 

For brawly could she frisk it, 
" Weel done," quo' he — ' Play up,' quo' she ; 

" Weel bobb'd," quo' Rob the Ranter: 
" It's worth my while to play indeed, 

" When I ha'e sic a dancer." 

' Weel ha'e ye play'd your part,' quo' Meg, 

' Your cheeks are like the crimson ; 
' There's nane in Scotland plays so weel 

• Since we lost Habby Simson. 
' I've liv'd in Fife, baith maid and wife, 

' These ten years and a quarter ; 
' Gin you should come to Anster fair, 

' Spier ye for Maggy Lauder.' 



32 

THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWS. 



xiow blythe ilk morn was I to see 
My swain come o'er the hill ! 

He skipt the burn, and flew to me, 
I met him'with good-will. 

the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, 
The broom of Cowdenknows; 

1 wish I were with my dear swain, 

With his pipe and my ewes. 

I neither wanted ewe nor lamb 
While his flock near me lay : 

He gather'd in my sheep at night, 
And cheer'd me a' the day. 
O the broom, fyc. 

He tuned his pipe and reed sae sweet, 
The birds stood list'ning by ; 

E'en the dull cattle stood and gazed, 
Charm'd with his melody. 
O the broom, 8$c. 

While thus we spent our time by turns, 
Betwixt our flocks and play, 

I envied not the fairest dame, 
Though ne'er so rich and gay. 
O the broom, 8jC. 

Hard fate, that I should banish'd be, 

Gang heavily, and mourn, 
Because I loved the kindest swain 

That ever yet was born ! 
O the broom, ijc. 

He did oblige me ev'ry hour; 

Could I but faithfu' be? 
He staw my heart, could I refuse 

Whate'er he ask'd of me ? 
O the broom, fyc. 

My dogie, and my little kit, 
That held my wee soup whey, 

My plaidy, brooch, and crooked stick, 
May now lie useless by. 
O the broom, Sfc. 

Adieu, ye Cowdenknows, adieu! 

Fareweel a' pleasures there I 
Ye gods, restore me to my swain, 

Is a' I crave or care I 
O the broom, &;c. 



32 



THK BROOM OF COWUE N KNOW S . 



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AUl.l) ROBIN GRAY. 



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n.ie- thing be side; To make the crown a pound my Jamie tfaed to sea, And the 



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Mv father cou'd na work, and my Blither couVl na spin, 

I toil'd Hay and night, hut their bread 1 cou'd na win; 

Auld Rob maintain'd them bailh, and wi' tears in his ee, 

Said, Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me! 

My heart it said Na; 1 look'd for Jamie hack: 

But the wind it blew hard, and the ship it was a wreck* 

The ship it was a wreck — why did na Jenny die, 

why was she *par'd to cry, Wae's me. 

3'} 

My father argu'd sair; my mother did na speak, 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break, 
Sae I g-ae him my hand, but my heart was i' the sea; 
And auld Robin Gray is g-udeman to me. 

1 had na been a wife a week but only four, 

When sitting- sae mournfully ae night at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'd na think it he, 
Till he said I'm come hame, love, to marry thee. 

4 , . n 

sair did we greet and muckle did we say, 

We took hut ae kiss, and we tore ourselves awa,y. 

1 wish that I were dead; but I'm no like to die: 
How Jang shall I live to cry, O waes me. 

1 gang- like a gbaixt , and I dow na think to spin; 

I dare na think on Jamie, for that wou'd he a sin; 

But I'll e'en do my best a jrude wife to be, 

Kor auld Robin Gray is ay kind to me. 

l.AliY \N.\K LINDSAY 



34. 



BANNOCKS O' BARF.KY MEAL. Haydn. 




Vols 3. 



34 



BANNOCKS O' BARLEYMEAL. 



WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 



BY SIR ALEXANDER SOS WELL, BART. 






A.RGYLE is my name — and you may think it strange 

To live at a court, and yet never to change ; 

To faction or tyranny equally foe — 

The good of the land's the sole motive I know. 

The foes of my country and king I have faced, 

In oity or battle I ne'er was disgraced ; 

I've done what I could for my country's weal ; 

Now I'll feast upon bannocks o' barleymeal. 

Ye riots and revels of London, adieu 1 
And folly, ye foplings, I leave her to you I 
For Scotland I mingled in bustle and strife ; 
For myself I seek peace and an innocent life ; 
I'll haste to the Highlands, and visit each scene 
With Maggy, my love, in her rockley o' green ; 
On the banks of Glenary what pleasure I'll feel, 
While she shares my bannock o' barleymeal ! 

And if it chance Maggy should bring me a son, 
He shall tight for his king as his father has done ; 
I'll hang up my sword with an old soldier's pride — 

I may he be worthy to wear't on his side. 

1 pant for the breeze of my loved native place ; 
I long for the smile of each welcoming face ; 
I'll aff to the Highlands asfast 's I can reel, 
And feast upon bannocks o' barleymeal. 



35 



BARBARA ALLAN. 



It was in and about the Mart'mas time, 

When the green leaves were a-falling, 
That Sir John Grasme, in the west countrie, 

Fell in love with Barbara Allan. 
He sent his man down through the town, 

To the place where she was dwelling — 
' O haste, and come to my master dear, 

' Gin ye be Barbara Allan.' 

O hooly, hooly gaed she up 

To the place where he was lying ; 
And when she drew the curtain by — 

' Young man, I think you're dying I ' 
"01 am sick, and very very sick, 

" And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan I" 
' O the better for me ye's never be, 

' Though your heart's blood were a-spilling ! 

' O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she, 

< When merry in the hall ye feasted, 
' That ye made the healths gae round and round, 

' And Barbara Allan slighted ! ' 
He turn'd his face unto the wall, 

For death was with him dealing : — 
" Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, 

" And be kind to Barbara Allan ! " 

And slowly, slowly raise she up, 

And slowly, slowly left him : 
And, sighing, said, ' she could not stay, 

' Since death of life had reft him.' 
She had not gane a mile but twa, 

When she heard the dead-bell tollin', 
And ev'ry jow that the dead-bell gied, 

It cried, " Woe to Barbara Allan ! " 

' O mother, mother, make my bed, 

' O make it soft and narrow ; 
' Since my love died for me to-day, 

1 I'll die for him to-morrow !' 



35. 



BARBARA ALLAN 



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36 



SENSIBILITY. 



WRITTEN 



BY BURNS. 



Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 
But distress, with horrors arming, 

Thou hast also known too well ! 
Fairest flow'r ! behold the lily 

Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay ! 
Let the blast, &c. 

Hear the woodlark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 

To each pirate of the skies. 
Dearly bought the hidden treasure 

Finer feelings can bestow ! 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 
Chords that vibrate, &c. 



37 



BANNOCKBURN. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY BURNS. 



ocots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 

Or to victory I 
Now's the day, and now's the hour, 
See the front of battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and slavery I 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee I 
Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa', 

Let him follow me I 

Bv oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free ! 
Lay the proud usurper low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow I 

Let us do or die ! 



Tradition says, that Hey tutti taili was Robert Bruce 's 
march at the battle of Bannockburn ; upon which Ritson 
makes the following remark : " It does not seem at all pro- 
bable that the Scots had any martial music in the time of 
this monarch ; it being their cu6tom, at that period, for 
every man in the host to bear a little born, with the blow- 
ing of which, as we are told by Froissart, they would make 
such a horrible noise as if all the devils of bell had been 
among them. It is not, therefore, likely, that those unpo- 
lished warriors would be curious 

to move 
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 
Of flutes and soft recorders. 

These horns are the only music ever mentioned by Bar- 
bour, to whom any particular march would have been too 
important a circumstance to be passed over in silence : so 
that it must remain a moot point, whether Bruce's army- 
were cheered by the sound of even a solitary bagpipe." 



37. 



BANNOCK BURN 



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KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 



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38 

KIND ROBIN LOVES ME. 

WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK, IN 1829, 

BY DAVID VEDDER, ESQ. 



The first Stanza and some other lines of the Old Song are 
retained. 

xtOBiN is my only jo, 
Robin has the art to woo ; 
So to his suit I mean to how, 

Because I ken he lo'es me. 
Happy happy was the show'r 
That led me to his birken bow'r, 
Where first of love I felt the pow'r, 

And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me. 

He's tall and comely, frank and free, 
Lo'ed by a', and dear to me ; 
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd die, 

Because my Robin lo'es me. 
The ev'ning star is Robin's e'e, 
When not a cloud hangs o'er the sea ; 
It brightest glows when he's wi' me, 

By that I ken he lo'es me. 

My titty Jeanie said to me, 
His constancy a joke would be, 
And I, o'er late, be made to see 

That Robin didna lo'e me. 
But little kens our bonny Jean 
The glamour o' my Robin's een ! — 
The starting tear — the vow yestreen, 

By these I ken he lo'es me. 

When in his bow'r o' summer sweets, 
At gloaming he his vow repeats ; 
My flutt'ring heart wi' rapture beats, 

To think how weel he lo'es me. 
The witchery o' Robin's smile 
Can sweeten care and lighten toil, 
And a' the ills o' life beguile, 

Sae lang's I'm sure he lo'es me. 

vol. m. K 



39 



TULLOCHGORUM.* 

BY THE 
REV. JOHN SKINNER. 



Come, gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, 
And lay your disputes all aside, 
What signifies't for folks to chide 

For what was done before them ? 
Let Whig and Tory all agree, 

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory ; 
Whig and Tory, all agree, 

To drop their Whig-meg-morum ! 
Let Whig and Tory all agree 
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, 
And cheerful sing along wi' me 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 

Tullochgorum's my delight, 
It gars us a' in ane unite, 

And ony sumph that keeps up spite, 
In conscience I abhor him : 

For blythe and merry we'll be a', 

Blythe and merry, blythe and merry ; 
Blythe and merry we'll be a', 

And make a cheerful quorum ; 

For blythe and merry we'll be a', 

As lang as we hae breath to draw, 

And dance till we be like- to fa' 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 

There needs na be sae great a fraise 
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 

1 wadna gie our ain strathspeys 

For half a hunder score o' them ; 
They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie ; 
Dowf and dowie at the best, 
Wi' a' their variorum ; 
They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Their allegros and a' the rest, 
They canna please a Scottish taste 

Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum. 



Let warldly worms their minds oppress 
Wi' fears o' want and double cess, 
And silly souls themsel's distress 

Wi' keeping up decorum : 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 

Sour and sulky, sour and sulky ; 
Sour and sulky shall we sit 
Like old philosophorum ! 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, 
P'Jor ever try to shake a fit 

To th' Reel o' Tullochgorum ? 

May choicest blessings aye attend 
Each honest, open-hearted friend, 
And calm and quiet be his end, 

And a' that's good watch o'er him ! 
May peace and plenty be his lot, 

Peace and plenty, peace and plenty ; 
Peace and plenty be his lot, 

And dainties a great store o' them ! 
May peace and plenty be his lot, 
Unstain'd by any vicious blot, 
And may he never want a groat 

That's fond o' Tullochgorum ! 

But for the base unfeeling fool, 
That loves to be oppression's tool, 
May envy gnaw his rotten soul, 

And discontent devour him ; 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 

Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow ; 
Dool and sorrow be his chance, 

And nane say wae's me for him 1 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, 
Wha e'er he be that winna dance 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 



* " This first of songs (said Burns) is the masterpiece of my old friend Skinnek. He was passing the 
day at the town of Cullen, I think it was, [should have said Ellon,] in a friend's house, whose name was Mont- 
gomery. Mrs Montgomery observing, en passant, that the beautiful Reel o' Tullochgorum wanted words, she 
begged them of Mr Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every lover of Scottish song, in this 
most excellent ballad." 



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TL LLOCHGORUM . 

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40 



THE BONNY BRUCKET LASSIE. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 
BY BURNS. 



J. urn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part ; 
Rue on thy despairing- lover, 

Canst thou break his faithful heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; — 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity, hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise. 

Thee, dear maid, have I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine would gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride of sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the summer moon ; 
Not the Poet, in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gi'es to me. 



2d— 40 



THE CALEDONIAN HUNT'S DELIGHT. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY BURNS, 



The Air by Mr James Miller, Edinburgh. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae weary, fu' of care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
That wantons through the flowery thorn ; 
Thou mind'st me of departed joys, 
Departed, never to return ! 

Oft have I roved by bonnie Doon, 
To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its love, 
And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 
And my fause lover staw my rose, 
But ab I he left the thorn wi' me ! 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 

WRITTEN 
BY THOMSON. 



U nless with my Amanda blest, 

In vain I twine the woodbine bower : 
Unless to deck her sweeter breast, 

In vain I rear the breathing flower. 
Awaken'd by the genial year, 

In vain the birds around me sing ; 
In vain the fresh 'ning fields appear ; 

Without my Love there is no spring. 



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Verse Z, . 
1 ask no pledge to make me blest, 

In gazing when alone; 
Nor one memorial for a breast, 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
By dav or night, in weal or woe, 

This heart, no longer free; 
Must near the love it cannot show, 

And silent ache for thee. 

l.OKl) HYHON. 



Vol:3. 



YOUNG TKRKNCE MACUONOUGH. 

Irish. 



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42 



YOUNG TERENCE MACDONOUGH. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BARONET. 



(the aie by carolan.) 

Once again, but how changed, since ray wand'rings began, 

I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann ; 

And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to the roar 

That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. 

Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn ? 

With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return ? 

Can I live the dear life of delusion again, 

That flovv'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain ? 

It was then that around me, though poor and unknown, 

High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown ; 

The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew, 

The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. 

I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire 

At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of their lyre : 

To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear, 

But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear. 

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call, 
And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall; 
And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high, 
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.* 
It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more 

Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore 

Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, shouldst thou burn ? 
They were days of delusion, and cannot return. 

But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who stood by, 
And listed my lay while she turn'd from mine eye ? 
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view, 
Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or melted to dew ? 
Oh ! would it had been so — O would that her eye 
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky, 
And her voice, that was moulded to melody's thrill, 
Had been but a zephyr that sigh'd and was still. 

Oh ! would it had been so — not then this poor heart 

Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part ; 

To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care, 

While I toil'il for the wealth I had no one to share. 

Not then had I said, when life's summer was done, 

And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on, 

" Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train, 

" And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again." 

* In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the 
Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-beam of Macpherson. 

VOL. III. 1 



43 

JOHNNY MACGILL. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 
BY HECTOR MACNIELL, ESQ. 



' CoiME under my plaidy, the night's ga'en to fa', 
' Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw ; 
' Come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me, 
' There's room in't dear lassie, believe me, for twa. 
' Come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me, 
' I'll hap you frae ev'ry cauld blast that will blaw ; 
' O come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me, 
' There's room in't dear lassie, believe me, for twa.' 

" Gae 'wa wi' your plaidy I auld Donald, gae 'wa ! 
" I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw : 
" Gae 'wa wi' your plaidy, I'll no sit beside ye, 
" Ye may be my gutchard ! — auld Donald, gae 'wa ! 
" I'm gaun to meet Johnny, he's young and he's bonny 
" He's been at Meg's bridal, sae trig and sae braw • 
" O nane dances sae lightly ! sae gracefu' ! sae tightly ! 
" His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw." 

' Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa' ; 
' Your Jock's but a gowk and has naething ava' ; 
' The hale o' his pack he has now on his back : 
' He's therty, and I am but threescore and twa. 
' Be frank now, and kindly — I'll busk you aye finely ; 
' To kirk or to market they'll few gang sae braw ; 
' A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, 
' And flunkies to tend ye as aft as ye ca'.' 

" My father aye tell'd me, my mither and a', 

" Ye'd make a gude husband, and keep me aye braw ; 

" It's true I lo'e Johnny, he's gude and he's bonny, 

" But, waes me ! ye ken he has naething ava' ! 

" I hae little tocher ; you've made a gude offer ; 

" I'm now mair than twenty ; my time is but sma' ! 

" Sae gi'e me your plaidy ; I'll e'en sit beside ye, 

" I thought ye'd been aulder than threescore and twa." 

She sat down ayont him, aside the stane wa' 
Whar Johnny was list'ning, and heard her tell a'. 
The day was appointed ! his proud heart it dunted, 
And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa. 
He wander'd hame weary, the night it was dreary ! 
And, thowless, he tint his gate deep 'mang the snaw ; 
The howlet was screamin', while Johnny cried, " Women 
" Would marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye braw!" 

O the de'il's in the lasses ! they gang now sae braw, 
They'll e'en match wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa ; 
The hale o' this marriage is gowd and a carriage ; 
Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw ! 
O the de'il's in the lasses ! they gang now sae braw, 
They'll e'en match wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa ; 
The hale o' this marriage is gowd and a carriage ; 
Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw I 







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JOHNY MACGII.L. 

Irish. 







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Vol : 3 



44 



PEGGY BAWN. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY BURNS. 



JMusing on the roaring ocean 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying heav'n in warm devotion 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow, 
Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow, 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 

Care untroubled, joy surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa 1 



45 



OONAGH. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 
BY B URNS. 



The heroine of these Verses was Miss Lorimer, Craigieburn, 
near Moffat. 

5ae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonny blue. 
Her smiling, sae wiling, 

Would make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto those rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face 

When first her bonnie face I saw ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy, 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Would make a saint forget the sky ; 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature ! — auld Nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair ! 
Her's are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gi'e me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair beaming, and streaming 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang ; 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove, 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'. 



45. 



OONAGH 

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VoJio. 



46 



CRYSTAL GROUND. 



THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 



BY MRS GRANT; 



AND INSCRIBED TO LADY ELEANOR BtJTLER AND MISS PONSONBF. 



In the vale of Langollen a cottage is seen, 
Well shelter'd from tempests by shades ever green ; 
There the daisy first opens its eye to the day, 
And the hawthorn first blooms on the bosom of May. 
There the daisy, fyc. 

There, far from the haunts of ambition and pride, 
Contentment, and virtue, and friendship, abide ; 
And Nature, complacent, smiles sweet on the pair 
Who have splendour forsaken to worship her there. 
And Nature, &jc. 

Bright patterns of wisdom, affection, and truth, 
Retired to the shade in the gay bloom of youth ; 
Your sweet rural cottage, and pastoral views, 
Are the charm of the vale, and the theme of the muse. 
Your sweet, §c. 

To the shade for concealment in vain you retire, 
We follow to wonder, to gaze, and admire ; 
Those graces which fancy and feeling refine, 
Like the glow-worm, through deepest obscurity shine. 
Those graces, fyc. 

While ambition exults in her storm-beaten dome, 
Like the tower on yon mountain that frowns o'er your home, 
With tranquil seclusion, and friendship your lot, 
How blest, how secure, and how envied your cot ! 
With tranquil, fyc. 

VOL. III. M 



47 



THE SHERIFFS FANCY. 

A HUNTING SONG, 
WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

AND HERE PUBLISHED BY EXPRESS PERMISSION. 



Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
Upon the mountain dawns the day; 
All the jolly chase is here, 
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear ; 
The eager hounds in chorus cry, 
The swelling horns salute the sky ; 
And merrily, merrily, mingle they — 
Then waken, lords and ladies gay. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mountain grey ; 

Brakes are deck'd with diamonds bright, 

And streams rejoice in early light. 

The foresters have busy been 

To track the buck in thicket green ; 

Now we are come to chant our lay, 

Then waken, lords and ladies gay. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
Unto the greenwood baste away; 
We can show you where he lies, 
Fleet of foot and tall of size : 
And we can show the marks he made, 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ; 
You soon shall see him brought to bay, 
Then waken, lords and ladies gay. 

Louder, louder, chant the lay, 

O waken, lords and ladies gay ; 

Tell them, Youth, and Mirth, and Glee, 

Run swift their course as well as we : 

Old Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 

As stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk ; 

O think of this, and rise with day, 

Ye gentle lords and ladies gay. 



47. 



THK. SHER RIFF'S FANCY. 

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Ml the jol- ly chace is here, With hawk and horse and hunt-in^ spear. 



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lute the sHy, And merrily merri*. ly min-g-le they. Then Wa-.-f.ken Lords and 



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48. 



THK NOTE OK THK BLACK COCK. Haydn. 



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Good morrow to thy sable beak, and glossy plumage 



[T | J J _J/ J 1 J J Good morrow to thy s able beak, and glossy pliimage 




Hark and sleek; Thy crimson moon and azure eve , Cock of the heath so wildly shy. 



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dark and sleek j Thy crimson moon and azure eye , Cock of the heath so wildly shy 




] see thee slyly cowrrinyihrough that wiry web of silverdewthat twinkles in the 




morning air like casement of my Lady fair. 



J niornirig- air like casement of my Ladv fair. \ 



morning- air 







^^^^fc 




Vol: 3. 



48 



THE NOTE OF THE BLACK COCK. 



THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 



BY JOANNA BAILLIE. 



(jrooD-morrow to thy sable beak, 
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek, 
Thy crimson moon, and azure eye, 
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy ! 
I see thee, slyly cowering, through 
That wiry web of silver dew, 
That twinkles in the morning air, 
Like casement of my Lady fair. 

A maid there is in yonder tower, 
Who, peeping from her early bower, 
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile, 
Her braided hair, and morning smile. 
The rarest things, with wayward will, 
Beneath the covert hide them still : 
The rarest things to light of day, 
Look shortly forth, and shrink away. 

A fleeting moment of delight, 
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight ; 
And short, I ween, the term will be 
That I shall parley hold with thee. 
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day; 
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay ; 
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring ; 
Thou art already on the wing. 



49 



OF A NOBLE RACE WAS SHENKIN. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY SIR ALEXANDER BOS WELL. BART. 



She. " Ay, sure thou art dear Taffy Morgan," 
He. ' And thou art my sweet Nell Gwynn ;' 
She. " Since both are agreed, it's a bargain," 
Ife. ' And they, Nell, may laugh that win.' 
She. " Then send for Harper Jenkin," 
He. ' Each string shall ring some note we love;' 
She. " The Rising' Sun, or the Oaken Grove," 
He. ' Or the Noble Race of ShenMn.' 
Both The Rising Sun, or the Oaken Grove, 
Or the Noble Race of Shenkin. 

She. " I'll smile no more upon Harry," 
He. ' Nor I upon Sail or Sue,' 
She. " And will you be kind when we marry ?" 
He. ' Ay, surely, kind and true.' 
She. " Then what on earth is lacking?" 
He. ' A goat or two, some malt to brew ;' 
She. " I nought can want when happy with you," 
He. ' Then canker'd care go packing.' 
Both. I nought can want when happy with you, 
Then canker'd care go packing ! 

She. " Our days shall be all bright summer," 
He. ' When summer days come about ;' 
She. " With ale I'll till you a rummer," 
He. ' And I, Nell, will drink it out.' 
She. " You think I'm idly boasting ;" 
He. ' Mayhap these summer days may tire,' 
She. " Then blythe we'll sit by the winter fire," 
He. ' And sing while our cheese is toasting.' 
Both. Then blythe we'll sit by the winter fire, 
And sing while our cheese is toasting. 



END OF VOLUME THIRD. 



EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY DALLANTTNE AND HUGHES, PAUL'? WORK, 1839, 
FOB THE PROPRIETOR, QEOROE THOMSON, 



•19. 



OKA NOHI.K RACK WAS SHENKIN. H«yilii 
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i • JJising-.swiiorthE oaken grove-Orthenohlerace of Shenkin. 

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Vol : 3 . 






THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 

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She marts! she tremhles! and she weeps! 
Her fair hands folded on her hreasi,— 
And now, how like a saint she sleeps, 
A seraph in the realms of rest .' 
Vol: 3. 



Sleep on secure, ahove control] I, 
Thy thoughts helonlT to heav'n and thee; 
And may the secrets of thy soulj 
Be held in reverence hv me. 



KOfiFKS. 



THE MELODIES, 

VOLUME THIRD. 



INDEX TO THEIR NAMES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER. 



THE MELODIES, ACCORDING TO THE PRINCIPLES STATED IN THE DISSERTATION, MAY BE 
CLASSED IN THE FOLLOWING MANNER: THOSE MARKED 

A, as the oldest, and of remote antiquity. 

B, as the productions of more recent periods. 

C, as modern productions, not older than the 18th century. 

D, as English imitations of Scottish melodies. 



„ „, Marks above „ 

Names of the Melodies. - , . Fage. 

referred to. 

An' thou were mine ain thing ... A 28 
Auld Robin Gray {Old and Modern Air, 

the last by the Rev. Mr Leeves) A & D 33 

Aye waking, O ! A 19 

Bannockburn A 37 

Bannocks o' barleyraeal C 34 

Barbara Allan B 35 

Crystal ground Welsh 46 

Donald Caird (by G. Thomson) . . C 29 

Down the burn, Davie B 11 

Ettrick banks A 9 

Farewell, dear mistress (by S. Clarke) C 13 

Fee him, father A 18 

Highland Mary C 23 

Jock of Hazeldean B 7 

Johny's grey breeks A 16 

Johnny Macgill Irish 43 

Kind Robin lo'es me A 38 

Logan water B 25 

Macpherson's farewell B 6 

Maggy Lauder B 31 

Mary's dream B 15 

O'er Bogie A 22 

Of a noble race was Shenkin . . Welsh 49 

Oh the broad swords of Old Scotland ! English 2 

Oonagh Irish 45 

O my love's like the red red rose 

(Marshall) C 5 



AT „, Marks above 

Names of the Melodies. „ , . 

referred to. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you . . B 

Peggy Bawn Irish 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu (Highland pipe 
tune) 

Saw ye my father B 

Sensibility C 

The blathrie o't . '. A 

The braes of Ballenden (by. Oswald) . C 
The broom of Covvdenknows ... A 

The bonny brucket lassie A 

The Caledonian hunt's delight (Miller) C 2d 
The ewie wi' the crooked horn . . . C 
The lass of Patie's mill . . . . • B 

The looking-glass B 

The note of the black cock . . . Welsh 

The parting Irish 

The Sheriff's fancy Welsh 

The shepherd's wife B 

The sleeping beauty Welsh 

The three men of Moriston .... A 

The weary pund o' tow C 

The wee, wee man • . A 

Tullochgorum C 

Wae's my heart that we should sunder B 
Woo'd and married and a' A 

Young Terence Macdonough . . Irish 



Page. 

8 

44 



10 
36 

27 
3 
32 
40 
-40 
14 
26 
21 
48 
41 
47 
20 
50 
30 
12 
24 
39 

17 
1 

42 



THE POETRY, 



VOLUME THIRD. 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINE OF EACH OF THE SONGS. 



FIRST LINES. 

A rose-bud by my early walk 
An thou wert mine ain thing 
Argyle is my name 
Ay, sure thou art dear, &c. 
Aye waking, 01 

Beneath a green shade 
By Logan streams 

Come, gie's a sang, &c. 
Come under my plaidy 



AUTHORS. PAGE. 

. Burns . 20 

. Anon. . 28 

Boswell, Sir A. 34 

Ditto . 49 

. Burns . 19 

. Blachlock, Dr 3 
. Mayne, John 25 



Skinner 
Macniell 



39 
43 



Donald Caird can lilt and sing Scott, Sir W. 29 

Farewell, dear mistress of my soul Burns . 13 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark, &c. Ditto . 6 

Fee him, father, fee him . . Anon. . 18 

Good-morrow to thy sable beak Baillie, J. 48 



He's far away, he's far away 
How blythe ilk morn 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen 
In the vale of Llangollen . 

Musing on the roaring ocean 
My wayward fate I needs, &c. 

Now cease of auld ferlies, &c. 
Now there's peace, &c. 



. Hunter, Mrs 12 
. Anon. . 32 

. Burns . 27 
Grant, Mrs 46 

. Burns . 44 
. Scott, Sir W. 22 

. A Friend . 30 
Lockhart, J. G. 2 



O bonnie was yon rosy brier . Burns . 24 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide Ditto ■ 25 

O mv Love's like the red red rose Ditto . 5 

Once again, but how changed . Scott, Sir W. 42 

On Ettrick banks . . . Anon. . 9 



FIRST LINES. AUTHORS. PAGE. 

O were I able to rehearse . . Skinner . 14 
O whistle, and I'll come to you . Burns . 8 



Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Robin is my only jo . 

Rob Macgregor's come again 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets 
Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled 
Sensibility how charming . 
Sleep on and dream . 
Speak on, speak thus, &c. . 

The bride she is winsome, &c. 

The kiss, dear maid, &c. . 

The lass of Patie's Mill . 

The moon had climb'd, &c. 

These rural shades . 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie 

Thou ling'ring star, &c. 

Thy fatal shafts unerring move . 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza 

'Twas even, the dewy fields, &c. 

'Twas in and about, &c. 



Unless with my Amanda blest Thomson 2d — 40 

Waken, lords and ladies 
Wha wadna be in love 
When the sheep are in, &c 
When trees did bud, &c. 
Where are the joys, &c. 
Why weep ye by the tide, Ladye 
With broken words, &c. 

Ye banks and braes, &c. 



Scott, Sir W. 4 


Vedder 


38 


Thomson, D. 29 


Burns 


45 


Ditto 


37 


Ditto 


36 


Rogers 


50 


Ramsay . 


17 


Baillie, J. 


1 


Byron, Lord 41 


Ramsay . 


26 


Lowe . 


15 


Smyth, W. 


21 


Burns 


18 


Ditto 


23 


Smollett . 


28 


Burns 


40 


Ditto . '. 


16 


Anon. 


35 



. Scott, SirW. 


47 


. Anon. 


31 


Lindsay, Lady A. 


33 


Crawford 


11 


. Burns 


10 


dye Scott, Sir W 


7 


. Ramsay . 


17 


Burns 2d— 


•40 



T !))!,, IT. >• 

OF 

ii 101 w lH> ^ © "IP ^ t? c w *w n 

MD OTHER EMINENT L.YRIC POETS ANCIENT & MODERN 

TUKTITliB 1TO TIK 

ASTJD OF 

JOE TH 

PIAWO FORTE 

THE WHOLE COMPOSE© FOR & 'COM, El' TED BY 

©E©R(&E THOMSON F.A.S. EDINBURGH . 

IN SIX TOLFMES 




&<>th.v\i JiJ- 



Lovt-s Gtyddn's in u rnvrU? i/ri>vr . Said ■ CttpuL ben J thv bow wtf/t speed 



«1»TE1) «. SO II, J} »r FBKaTOn 71. JOB AW STKJBIBT 1HI FJR 3 T , MOB 1 K S OH fc C? « IK APSlBiK 

AH'© CTIMSOIf, K ©IK IB lirjRU II 

ENTPAT STA.HAJJ. 



fricii N/aAcli. 





8-1 



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1 LOHD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

Thr Air compos*-, | (or th,- Song by G- . Thomson in 1822. 



I'll*- Sym? Ar Acnompt l>vK .A. Smnh. 




Vnl: V. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 
BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. 

AND HERE BY HIS PERMISSION UNITED TO A MELODY COMPOSED BY C. THOMSON, IV 1822. 



A Chieftain to the Highlands hound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 

" And I'll give thee a silver pound, 
" To row us o'er the ferry." — 

' Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water !' — 

" Oh I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
" And this Lord Ullin's daughter. — 

" And fast before her father's men 
" Three days we've fled together, 

" For should he find us in the glen, 
" My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

" Should they our steps discover, 
" Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

" "When they have slain her lover ?" — 

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, 
' I'll go, my chief — I'm ready : 

' It is not for your silver bright ; 
' But for your winsome lady : 

• And by my word ! the bonny bird 

' In danger shall not tarry j 
' So, though the waves are raging white, 

' I'll row you o'er the ferry.' — 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking ; * 

And in the scowl of heav'n each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 



But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men, 
Their trampling sounded nearer.— 

' Oh haste thee, haste !' the lady cries, 
' Though tempests round us gather ; 

' I'll meet the raging of the skies : 
' But not an angry father.' — 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her,— 
When oh ! too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gather'd o'er her.— 

And still they row'd amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing : 
Lord Uilin reach'd that fatal shore, 

His wrath was chang'd to wailing.— 

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade 

His child he did discover :— 
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

' Come back ! come back !' he cried in grief, 

Across this stormy water : 
' And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 

' My daughter ! — Oh my daughter!'— 

'Twas vain : the loud waves lash'd the shore, 

Return or aid preventing : — 
The waters wild went o'er his child— 

And he was left lamenting. 



VOL. IV. 



* The evil spirit of the waters. 

A 



2 



GLENARA. 

THE VERSES WRITTEN' 
BT THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. 

AND HERE BY HIS PERMISSION UNITED TO AN OLD MELODY, HiRMO- 
NIZED BY R. A. SMITH, IN 1822. 



O heard ye yon pibrach sound sad in the gale, 
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear ; 
And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier. 

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud j 
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud : 
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around : 
They march'd all in silence — they look'd on the ground. 

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, 
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar; 
Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn : 
' Why speak ye no word !' — said Glenara the stern. 

' And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of my spouse, 
' Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows V 
So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer is made, 
But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd. 

' I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,' 
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud J 
' And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem : 
' Glenara ! Glenara! now read me my dream!' 

O ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain I ween, 
When the shroud was unclos'd, and no lady was seen ; 
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 
'Twas the youth who had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn : 

' I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 
' I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: 
' On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ; 
' Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my dream !' 

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, 
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found j 
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne, 
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn. 



2. GLENAKA. 

The Sym* Ar Accnmp* new Ac united tt> thr Song in J822 .— - S imt li 




w-jit. icjc Jf - J ii/JV ^ 



band Cometh slovvlv with weeping" and wail . 'Tis the chief of Glena-ra la-- 



f'iil'fn i gin 'i I I U i ,U'iii ! 



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Vol : 4 . 



3. 



HOOLY <k FAIKLY. 

Tht- Song new, kii<1 first poMishM in 18J2. 



Haydn . 




wife she drinks possets and wine o' Canarv, And fa's me a nitj^ard — lv 

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£ 




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3 

HOOLY AND FAIRLY, 

WRITTEN FOB THIS WOHK IN 1822, 
BY JOANNA BAILLIE. 



The Editor has great satisfaction in being enabled to substitute this most 
admirable new version of Hooly and Fairly, in the room of the homely 
old song. 

Uh Neighbours! what had I ado for to marry, 
My wife she drinks possets and wine o' Canary, 
And ca's me a niggardly, thraw-gabbet Carly r 
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly L 
Hooly and fairly, &c. 

She feasts wi' her kimmers on dainties enew, 
Ay bowing and smirking and dighting her mou', 
While I sit aside and am helpet but sparely, 
O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, &c. 

To fairs and to bridals and preachings and a', 
She gangs sae light-headed and busket sae braw, 
Its ribbons and mantuas that gar me gae barely, 
gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, &c. 

In the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made, 
Wi' babs o' red roses and breast-knots o'erlaid, 
The dominie sticket his psalm very nearly, 
O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, &c. 

She's warring and flyting frae morning till e'en, 
And if ye gainsay her, her eye glowrs sae keen ! 
Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she'll lay on ye sairly ! 
O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly ! 
Hooly and fairly, &c. 

When tired wi' her cantraps, she lies in her bed, 
The wark a' neglecket, the house ill up-red, 
When a' our good neighbours are stirring right early ^ 
O gin my wife wad sleep timely and fairly ! 
Timely and fairly, &c. 

A word o' good counsel or grace she'll hear none, 
She bardies the Elders and mocks at Mess John, , 

And back in his teeth his ain text she flings rarely ! 

gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly ! 

Hooly and fairly, &c. 

1 wish I were single, I wish I were freed, 
I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead ; 

Or she in the mools, to dement me nae mair, lay ; 
What does't avail to cry hooly and fairly, 

Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly ! 

Wasting my breath to cry hooly and fairly ! 



4 



TAK' YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 



In winter, when the rain rain'd cauld, 

And frost and snaw on ilka hill, 
And Boreas, wi 1 his blasts sae bauld, 

Was threat'ning a' our ky to kill : 
Then Bell my wife, wha lo'es na strife, 

She said to nie right hastily, — 
' Get up, goodman, save Cromie's life, 

' And tak' your auld cloak about ye. 

4 My Cromie is an useful cow, 

' And she is come of a good kyne ; 
4 Aft has she wet the bairns's mou, 

' And I am laith that she shou'd tyne j 
' Get up, Goodman, it is fu' time, 

4 The sun shines in the lift sae hie j 
4 Sloth never made a gracious end, — 

' Gae, tak' your auld cloak about ye.' 

"■ My cloak was ance a good grey cloak, 

44 When it was fitting for my wear ; 
" But now it's scantly worth a groat, 

" For I have worn't this thirty year ; 
a Let's spend the gear that we have won, 

" We little ken the day we'll die : 
44 Then I'll be proud, since I ha'e sworn — 

" To ha'e a new cloak about me." 

' In days when our King Robert rang, 
' His trews they cost but half-a-crown ; 

' He said they were a groat o'er dear, 
' And call'd the tailor thief and loun. 



' He was the King that wore a crown, 
• And thou'rt a man of laigh degree, — 

4 'Tis pride puts a' the country down, 
4 Sae tak' thy auld cloak about thee.' 

" Every land has its ain laugh, 

" Ilk kind of corn it has its hool ; 
" I think the warld is a' run wrang, 

" When ilka wife her man wad rule. 
" Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 

" As they are girded gallantly, 
44 While I sit hurklen in the ase ? — 

"I'll ha'e a new cloak about me !" 

4 Goodman, I wat 'tis thirty years 

4 Since we did ane anither ken ; 
' And we have had between us twa, 

4 Of lads and bonny lasses ten : 
4 Now, they are women grown, and men, 

4 I wish and pray weel may they be : 
* And if you prove a good husband, 

4 E'en tak' your auld cloak about ye.' 

" Bell my wife, she loves na strife ; 

" But she wad guide me, if she can, 
44 And to maintain an easy life, 

44 I aft maun yield, though I'm goodman : 
44 Nought's to be won at woman's hand, 

" Unless ye gi'e her a' the plea ; 
44 Then I'll leave aff where I began, 

44 And tak' my auld cloak about me." 



4. 



TAK' YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. H.vdn. 




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PHELY AND WILLY. 

WRITTEN FOR THIS WOEK, 

SY BURNS. 
A JACOBITE AIR. 



The Heroine was Miss Phillis Macmukdo, Drumlanrig. — Whether the Poet had any person in his eye for 
Willy, the Editor has not been able to ascertain. 






He. 

' O Phely, happy be that day, 

When roving through the gather'd hay, 
' My youthful heart was stown away, 
' And by thy charms, my Phely.' 

She. 
" O Willy, ay I bless the grove 
" Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
" Whilst thou did'st pledge the Powers above, 
" To be my ain dear Willy." 

He. 

1 As songsters of the early year 
' Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
' So ilka day to me mair dear 
• And charming is my Phely.' 

She. 
" As on the brier the budding rose 
" Still richer breathes, and fairer blows, 
" So in my tender bosom grows 
" The love I bear my Willy." 

He. 

' The milder sun and bluer sky 
' That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
' Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye, 
' As is a sight o' Phely.' 



She. 
" The little swallow's wanton wing-, 
" Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
" Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
" As meeting o' my Willy." 

He. 

' The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
' Sips nectar in the op'ning flower, 
' Compar'd wi' my delight is poor 
1 Upon the lips o' Phely.' 

She. 
" The woodbine in the dewy weet, 
" When ev'ning shades in silence meet, 
" Is nought sae fragrant or sae sweet 
" As is a kiss o' Willy." 

He. 

1 Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
' And fools may tyne, and knaves may win : 
' My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
' And that's my ain dear Phely.' 

She. 

" What's a' the joys that gowd can gi'e ? 
" I care na wealth a single flie : 
" The lad I love's the lad for me, 
" And that's my ain dear Willy." 



VOL- IV. 



6 



O'ER THE HILLS AND FAR AWA' 

IHE SONG WRITTEN FOE THIS WORK 
BY BURNS. 



-How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad : 
How can I the thought forego* 
He's on the seas to meet the foe : 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my Love ; 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are with him that's far away. 
On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away,. 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are with him that's far away. 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When Winter rules with boundless power, 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar, 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

All I can — I weep and pray 

For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away, 
Nightly dreams, a"nd thoughts by day, 
Are with him that's far away. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild War his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heav'n with prosperous gales 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 
On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away, 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are with him that's far away. 



6. 



O'ER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 



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Tho'this Air is to be found in another Volume, yet its simple heautv, with tnat r j* 

*"'•*■ ,,f the Svml it A^uomi? and the (rreat . harm . I tlie Verses. iimIu. erl the Editor to unite them here. 



THE HOPELESS LOVER. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY BURNS. 

The Editor, anxious to find a better Melody for this delight- 
ful Song than that with which it was before united, has 
formed the new union on the opposite page. 

Now spring has clad the grove in green, 

And strew'd the lea with flowers ; 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers. 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine- 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

That glides, a silver dart, 
And safe, beneath the shady thorn, 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little floweret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit"kuows, 
Was mine— 'till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom ; 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs,. 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye : 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
Of witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall of care. 

O had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whose doom is, " hope nae mair! 

What tongue his woes can tell ; 
Within whose bosom, save Despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell ! 



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8 



KATHERINE OGIE. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY BURNS. 



These beautiful and pathetic Verses relate to one of the most interesting eTents of 
the Poet's life. He had taken a farewell of a beloved girl, to whom he was to 
have been married on her return from the AVest Highlands ; but she had scarce 
got back again to Greenock, when she was seized with a malignant fever, which 
terminated her life before he could even hear of hei illness. 

JL e banks, and braes, and streams around, 

The castle of Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfald her robes, 

And there the langest tarry j 
For there I took the last farewell 

Of my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom J 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder. 
But oh ! fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary. 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



KATHERINE OGIE. 








Ye banks and braes anrl streams a _ round, The cas_ tie of Mont__j;o merv, Green 

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Vol : 4 



9 



THE TROUBADOUR. 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BARONET. 

THE AIK COMPOSED FOB THE SONG BY G. THOMSON, 1822. 



Glowtng with love, on fire for fame, 

A Troubadour that hated sorrow, 
Beneath his lady's window came, 

And thus he sung his last good-morrow: 
*• My arm it is my country's right, 

"My heart is in my true love's bower J 
" Gaily for love and fame to fight 

" Befits the gallant Troubadour." 

And while he march'd with helm on head, 

And harp in hand, the descant rung, 
As, faithful to his favourite maid, 

The minstrel-burthen still he sung : 
" My arm it is my country's right, 

" My heart is in my lady's bower} 
" Resolv'd for love and fame to fight, 

" I come, a gallant Troubadour. 

Even when the battle-roar was deep, 

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, 

And still was heard his warrior-lay ! 
u My life it is my country's right, 

" My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
" For love to die, for fame to fight, 

" Becomes the valiant Troubadour."— 

Alas ! upon the bloody field, 

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, 
But still, reclining on his shield, 

Expiring sung the exulting stave : 
" My life it is my country's right, 

" My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
" For love and fame to fall in fight 

" Becomes the valiant Troubadour." 
vot. vr. c 



10 



LOKD BALGONIE'S FAVOURITE. 

THE SONG WRITTEN 
BY BURNS. 



The Editor, anxious to provide a better Melody for the following exquisitely beau- 
tiful Verses than that to which they were formerly joined, has here united 
them with Lord Balgonie's Favourite; a Melody which made its first ap- 
pearance in Gow's Collection of Strathspeys above 20 years ago. Mr Gow 
got it from Mr Dalrymple of Orangefield, who had it of a gentleman from one 
of the Western isles as a very old Highland production ; but how uncertain is 
the origin of Melodies ! For this one has lately been published in Albyn's An- 
thology, as a composition of the Editor of that Collection. Mr T. in his folio 
work gave it in a form somewhat different from that adopted on the opposite 
page, which last, after the collation of various copies, he thinks the best. 

.Again rejoicing Nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 

All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring, 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry plougbboy cheers his team, 

Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks j 
But life to me's a weary dream, 

A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And o'er the moorlands whistles shill 5 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 

Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 
And mounts and sings, on flitt'ring wings, 

A wae-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

Come Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 

When Nature all is sad like me. 

Note . — It may be proper to mention, that, for the sake of even stanzas to suit 
the Air, four lines of the Song, as originally written, are omitted in the 
above. The lines are, 

" The wanton coot the water skims, 

" Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 
" The stately swan majetic swims, 

" And every thing is blest but I !" 



10. I.OKD J1AU3 ONUS'S FAVORITE. 

E'niteil »<t a ijuutf of Bntus. with a nt*w Sym. Ar Acghii \>\ ill Itt22< 




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mavis and the lint white sing*, The merry i>Ii>uj(hbqycheershi.steam, With joy vhetemlie 



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11. 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 





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11 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY MRS COCKBURN, 

Who was daughter of Rutherford of Faimalie, in Selkirkshire, and relict of Mr Cockbcrn of Ormiston, whose father was 

Lord Justice- Clerk of Scotland. 



1 ve seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling-, 

I've tasted her favours and felt her decay; 
Sweet was her blessing, kind her caressing, 

Hut now it is fled — fled far away ! 

I've seen the forest adorned the foremost, 

With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay ; 

So bonny was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming; 
But now they are wither'd and weeded away ! 



I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, 
And the dread tempest roaring before parting day ; 

I've seen Tweed's silver streams glitt'ring in the sunny beams, 
Grow drumly and dark as they roll'd on their way. 

O fickle Fortune ! why this cruel sporting ! 

O why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day ! 
Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, 

For the flowers of the forest are withered away ! 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 

Written vpon the Battle of Flodden, which proved so fatal to James IV. and the Scottish Army. 



Although the following admirable Verses have by many been thought as old as the calamitous event to which they refer, 
yet a distinguished Poet has lately informed us, that he saw evidence of their having been written about the middle 
of the eighteenth century, by a Lady in Roxburghshire, (of the Minto family it is believed.) — The first and fourth lines 
only are ancient. 



I've heard them lilting at the ewe milking, 

Lasses a' lilting before dawn of day; 
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning, 

The flowers of the forest are a' wede away. 

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads'are scorning 
The lassies are lonely, dowie, and wae ; 

Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing; 
Ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away. 

At e'en in the gloaming nae swankies are roaming, 
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; 

But ilk ane sits dreary, lamenting her dearie, — 
The flowers o' the forest, wha're a' wedc away. 



In har'st, at the shearing, nae younkers are jeering ; 

The bansters are lyart, runkled, and grey; 
At fairs, nor at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching, 

Since our braw foresters are a' wede away. 

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the border; 

The English for ance by guile won the day : 
The flowers o' the forest, that fought ay the foremost, 

The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay \ 

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe milking, 
Our women and bairns are heirtless and wae; 

Sighing an I moaning on ilka green loaning, — 
The flowers of the forest are a' wede away. 



12 



THE BRAES OF BALLOCHMYLE. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOB THIS WORK 

BY BURNS, 
On the amiable Family of the Whitefohds leaving Ballochmyle.' 



J- he Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea,* 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But Nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes of Ballochmyle. f 



Low in your wintry beds ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae malr 

Shall birdie charm, or flowret smile : 
Fareweel the bonny banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! 



* Catrine in Ayrshire, the Seat of Ducald Stewart, Esq. 
f Ballochmyle, now the seat of Boyd Alexander, Esq. 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 



Where Esk* its silver current leads 

Mang greenwoods gay wi' mony a flower, 
I hied me aft to dewy meads, 

In happy days, and built my bower. 
I call'd upon the birds to sing, 

And nestle in ilk fragrant flower, 
While in the liv'ry of the spring 

I deck'd my pleasing peaceful bower. 



'Twas there I found, ah ! happy time, 

A modest, sweet, and lovely flower ! 
I cropt it in its virgin prime, 

To grace and cheer my bonny bower. 
But soon the blast howl'd in the air 

That robb'd me of this matchless flower ; 
And sorrow since, and mony a care, 

Have stript and wither'd a' my bower ! 



* The Esk here alluded to, after passing the romantic banks of Roslin, winds for several miles through 
aTariety of scenerysingularly beautiful. 



12. 




THE BKAES OF BAI.I.OCHMYLE 



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Vol > * . 



13. THE LAMENT OF FLORA MACDONALD. 

A. new song hy J:Hogg$ pal.'. 1 singly by N.Gow& Son, Arhere given liy their authority. 




1822. isp _^ 



Far o_ver yon hills of the heather so green, And down by the Correi that 




14. 




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The Moorcock that craws on the brows o' Ben — Connal, 

He kens o' his bed in a sweet mossy hamej 
The Eag-le that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan— RonaM 

Unawed and unhunted his eiry can claim; 
The Solan can sleep on his shelve of the shore, 

The Cormorant roost, on his rock of the sea; 
But Oh! there is ane whose hard fate I deplore, 

Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he. 
The conflict is past, and our name is no more, 

There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me! 

The targ-et is torn from the arms of the just, 

The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, 
The claymore Tor ever in darkness must rust; 

But red is the sword of the stranger and slave: 
The hoof of the horse, and the foot oT ilit proud 

Have trode o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue: 
Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud 

When tyranny revelled in blood of the true; 
Farewell my young- hero, the gallant and good! 

The crown of thy Fathers is torn from thy brow. 



Vol : 4 . 



1. 



J . 



PULL AWAY JOLLY BOYS. 

The Song utr-w^ mid first publish**! in \i>'22 . 



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Vol: 4. 



15 



PULL AWAY JOLLY BOYS. 



WHITTEN FOR THIS WORK 



BY JAMES HOGG, 



AND HERE FIRST UNITED WITH THE MCSIC, 1822. 



Were we go upon the tide, 
Pull away, jolly boys, 

With heaven for our guide, 
Pull away. 

Here's a weather-beaten tar, 
Britain's glory still his star, 

He has borne her thunders far, 
Pull away, jolly boys, 

To yon gallant man-of-war, 
Pull away. 



We have fought and we have sped, 
Pull away, gallant boys, 

Where the rolling wave was red, 
Pull away. 

We've stood many a mighty shock, 
Like the thunder stricken oak, 

We've been bent, but never broke, 
Pull away, gallant boys ; 

We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke, 
Pull away. 



We've with Nelson plough'd the main, 

Pull away, jolly boys j 
Now his signal flies again, 

Pull away. 
Brave hearts then let us go, 

To drub the haughty foe ; 
Who once again shall know, 

Pull away, gallant boys, 
That our backs we never shew, 
Pull away. 



Here we go upon the deep, 

Pull away, gallant boys, 
O'er the ocean let us sweep, 

Pull away. 
Round the earth our glory rings, 

At the thought my bosom springs, 
That where'er our pennant swings, 

Pull away, gallant boys, 
Of the ocean we're the kings, 
Pull away. 



VOL. IV. 



16 



THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 

BY BURNS. 



Hark ! the mavis' evening sang, 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang,* 

My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca 1 them where the burnie rows, 
My bonnie, bonnie, dearie. 
Ca' them where the burn rows, 

My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden-side, 
Through the hazels spreading wide 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 

To the moon sae clearly. Ca' the ewes, fyc. 



Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 

Fairies dance sae cheery. Co 1 the ewes, fyc. 

Gaist nor bogle shalt thou fear, 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nought of ill may come thee near, 

My bonnie dearie. Co 1 the ewes, Sfc. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart, 
I can die — but carina part, 
My bonnie dearie ! 

Ca 1 the ewes, fyc. 



* Faulding, to shut sheep in the fold. 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 

WRITTEN BY MR DUDGEON. 



Up amang yon cliffy rocks, 
Sweetly rings the rising echo, 
To the maid that tends the goats, 
Lilting o'er her native notes. 
Hark ! she sings, young Sandy's kind, 
And he's promised ay to lo'e me ; 
Here's a broach, I ne'er shall tine't, 
Till he's fairly married to me. 
Drive away, ye drone Time, 
And bring about our bridal day. 

Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, 
Aften does he blaw the whistle, 
In a strain sae saftly sweet, 
Lammies list'ning darena bleat : 
He's as fleet's the mountain roe, 



Hardy as the Highland heather, 
Wading through the winter snow, 
Keeping ay his flock tbegither ; 
But a plaid wi' bare hoghs, 
He braves the bleakest norlin blast. 

Rrawly can he dance and sing, 

Canty glee or Highland cronach ; 

Nane can ever match his fling 

At a reel or round a ring. 

Wightly can he wield a rung, 

In a brawl he's ay the bangster } 

A' his praise can ne'er be sung 

By the langest winded sangster. 

Sangs that do o' Sandy sing 

Come short, though they were e'er sae lang. 



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n. 



WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG 



Haydn. 




\ i I : i ■ . 



17 



WILLY WAS A WANTON WAG. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY BURNS. 



The Heroine of the following Song was Miss Macmurdo, Dnimlanrig, — who is now Mrs Crawford. " I Lavs 
not (said the Poet) painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager." 

JL hers was a lass, and she was fair, 



At kirk and market to be seen; 
"When a' our fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 
And ay she wrought her mummies wark. 

And ay she sang sae mcriilie; 
The blythest bird upon the bush, 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 



And now she works her mammie's wark, 

And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
Tel wist na what her ail might be, 

Or what wad make her weel again. 
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 

And did na joy blink in her e'e, 
As Kobie tell'd a tale o' love 

Ae ev'ning on the lily lea ? 



But hawks will rob the tender joys 

That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 
And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 

And love will break the soundest rest. 
Young Robie was the brawest lad, 

The flower and pride of a' the gleu ; 
And he had owscn, sheep, and kye, 

And wanton nagits nine or ten. 



The sun was sinking in the west, 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
His check to hers he fondly laid, 

And wbisper'd thus his tale o' love. 
" O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; 

" O can'st thou think lo fancy me '. 
" Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

" And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 



He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down. 
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown ! 
As in the bosom of the stream 

The moon beam dwells at dewy e'en; 
So trembling, pure, was tender love 

Within the breast of bonnie Jean. 



" At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 

" Or naething else to trouble thee, 
•' But stray amang the heather bells, 

" And tint the waving corn wi' me." 
Now what could artless Jeanie do? 

She had na will to say him na: 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent. 

And love was ay between them twa. 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 



It is mentioned in the Memoranda of Burns, that this Song was written upon Walkinshaw of Walkinshaw, 
near Paisley. 'Tis said, however, by others, that the Hero was Hamilton of Gilbertfield. 

W iLLiP. was a wanton wag, And was nae Willie a great Iown, 

The blvthest lad that e'er 1 saw, As shy re a lick as e'er was seen ? 

At bridals still he bore the brag, When he danc'd wi' the lasses round, 

And carried ay the grce awa' : The bridegroom spier'd where he had been. 

His doublet was of Zetland shag, Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring, 

And wow ! but "Willie he was braw, Wi' bobbing, faith, my shanks are sair ; 

And at his shoulder hung a tag, Gae ca' your bride and maidens in, 

That pitas' d the lasses best of a'. For Willie he dow do nae mail-. 



He was a man without a clag, 

His heart was frank .without a flaw; 
And ay whatever Willie said, 

It was still hadden as a law. 
His boots they were made of the jag, 

When he went to the Weaponshaw, 
Upon the green mine durst him brag, 

The fient a' ane amuug them a'. 



Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out, 

And for a wee fill up the ring; 
But shame light on his souple snout '. 

He wanted Willie's wanton fling. 
Then straight he to the bride did fare, 

Says, wcil's me on your bonnie face ; 
Wi' bobbing Willie's shanks are sair, 

And I'm come out to fill his place. 



And was not Willie well worth gowd ? 

He wan the love of great and sma' ; 
For after he the bride had kiss'd, 

He kiss'd the lasses hale sale a'. 
Sae merrily round the ring they row'd, 

When by the hand he led them a', 
And smack on smack on them bestow'd. 

By virtue of a standing law. 



Bridegroom, she says, youl'll spoil the dance, 

And at the ring you'll ay be lag, 
Unless, like Willie, ye advance, 

O ! Willie has a wanton leg; 
Forwi't he learns us a' to steer, 

And foremost ay bears up the ring, 
We will find nae sic dancing here. 

If we want Willie's wanton fling. 



18 



THE BLUE BELL OF SCOTLAND. 

THK SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 

On tl:e Marquis of Hdntly's departure for the Continent with his reciment 

in 1799; 

BY MRS GRANT, LAGGAN. 

' vJh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone ? 

' O where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone ?' 

" He's gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, 

11 And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home. 

" He's gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, 

" And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home." 

' O where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay? 
' O where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay ?' 
" He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey, 
" And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away ; 
" He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, 
" And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went aw'ay." 

' O what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear ? 

' O what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear ?' 

" A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, 

" And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star ; 

" A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, 

" And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star." 

' Suppose, ah suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound 

■ Should pierce your Highland Laddie, and all your hopes confound !' 

" The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, 

" The spirit of a Highland Chief would lighten in his eye ; 

" The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, 

" And for his King and Country dear with pleasure he would die. 

" But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonny bounds, 
" But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland s bonny bounds, 
" His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, 
" While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name re- 
sounds. 
" His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, 
" While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name re- 
sounds." 



THE ULUfe BELL OF SCOTLAND. 




highland laddie -one, ^° ** herejfell me wherejis your hit , h | an(1 | a(Ifl ^. j,„ ne . 

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19. O BONNY LASS CAN YOU LY IN A JBARIMCK. Hav.ln* 



^ 







Vol : 4 



19 



O! BONNY LASS, WILL YOU LYE IN A BARRACK? 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOE THIS WORK 

jBF hector macneill, esq. 



■ O sA.r, my sweet Nan, can you lye in a hammock ? 

4 While the mountain-seas rage, can you swing in a hammock, 

• As the winds roar aloft, and rude billows dash o'er us, 
' Can my Nancy sleep soundly amid the wild chorus ?' 
" O yes ! my dear Jack ! T can lye in a hammock 

" While the mountain seas rage, can sleep sound in a hammock, 
'« Rude billows will rock me when love smiles to cheer me j — 
" If thy slumber's sweet, Jack, no dangers can fear me !" 

' But say! if at night the sad cry comes for wearing, 

1 The breakers a head, and the boatswain loud swearing; 

' While the main- yard dips deep, and white billows break o'er us, 

' Will my Nancy not shrink, then, amid the dread chorus ?' 

" O no ! my dear lad, when these dangers are near me, 

" My Jack's kindly whispers will soothe me — will cheer me ; 

" A kiss snatch'd in secret amid the dread horror, 

" Will hush the rude chorus, and still ev'ry terror !" 

' But say ! my sweet lass, when the tempest's all smashing, 
' The topsails all split, and the topmasts down crashing ! 

• When all hands spring aloft, and no lover to cheer her, 

' Will my Nancy not shrink, when such dangers are near her ? 
" Ah no ! my lov'd Jack, while the tempest's loud bawling, 
" The topsails all split, and the topmasts down falling, 
" In watching your dangers, my own will pass over, 
" In prayers for your safety, no fears I'll discover." 

' But oh ! my lov'd Nan, when the ship is done clearing, 

' The matches all lighted, — the French foe fast nearing, 

1 Can you stand to your gun, while pale death drops around you ? 

' 'Tis then, my sweet Nancy ! new fears will confound you !'— 

*' No, no ! my dear Jack, to these fears love's a stranger, 

" When you fight by my side, I'll defy every danger ? 

" On your fate my fond eye will be fixt while you're near me, 

" If you fall ! — Nancy dies ! — if you live, love will cheer me !" 

TO BE SUNG BY BOTH AT THE SAME TIME. 

He. ' Come ! come, then, dear Nan ! let us swing in a hammock ! 

' While mountain-seas dash round, sleep sound in our hammock ! 

• With love such as thine, who would dread war or weather! 
' While we live we shall love — when we fall — fall together !' 

She. " Come ! come, then, dear Jack, let us swing in a hammock ! 

" While mountain-seas dash round, sleep sound in our hammock ! 
" With love such as thine, who would dread war or weather ? 
" While we live, we shall love ! — when we fall — fall together !" 

VOL. IV. E 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY BURNS. 



O meikle thinks my Love o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my Love o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my Love I ken brawlie, 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee 5 
My laddie's sae meikle in love wi' the siller, 

He canna hae love to spare for me. 



Your proffer o' love's an airle penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But gin ye be crafty, I am cunning, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood ; 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree ; 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae than me. 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 



WRITTEN FOE THIS WORK 



BY JOHN RICHARDSON, ESQ. 



The two separate quaTers attached to the last word of titejirst, third, and seventh lines of the preceding Sonj. 
must, in the same lines of the following Verses, be sung as if they were tied. 



The budding thorn, and violets blue, 

Proclaim thy coming, gentle Spring ; 
The lark now greets thy fragrant morn, 

Thy evening praise the thrushes sing. 
Thy balmy gales revive the meads, 

And life, and love, and joy renew ; 
And softly flow the rippling streams, 

Clear as the heaven's unclouded blue. 



How sweet with thee, my Love, to walk 

Along the woodland's primrose way ; 
And hail thy fav'rite mossy thorn, 

Again in Spring's fresh clothing gay. 
Again to trim the jasmine bower, 

The woodbine with the rose to twine, 
And prop the flower in winter fallen, 

And bless the day that made thee mine. 



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21. FA IK HELEN OF KI KKCONJVELL . Haydn, 



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I wish I were where Heleji lies," Kor night and dav on n»LJS N.' ' f< 

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Vol: ^ 



21 



FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.* 



1 wish I were where Helen lies, 
Where night and day on ine she cries ; 
I wish I were where Helen lies 

On fair Kirkconnell lea ! 

Oh Helen fair ! oh Helen chaste ! 
Were I with thee I would be blest, 
Where thou liest low, and at thy rest 
On fair Kirkconnell lea. 

Oh Helen fair, beyond compare, 
I'll make a garland of thy hair 
Shall bind my heart for evermair, 
Until the day I die ! 

I wish my grave were growing green, 
A winding sheet put o'er my een ; 



I wish my grave were growing green 
On fair Kirkconnell lea ! 

Curs'd be the heart that hatch'd the thought, 
And curs'd the hand that fired the shot, 
When in my arms dear Helen dropt, 
And died to succour me ! 

O think na ye my heart was sair, 

My Love dropt down and spake nae mair ! 

think na ye my heart was sair 

On fair Kirkconnell lea! 

Where Helen lies, where Helen lies ! 

1 wish I were where Helen lies, 
Soon may I be where Helen lies, 

Who died for love of me ! 



* The Story of this Ballad is thus given by Mr Pennant in his Tour in Scotland : — " In the Burying Ground 
" of Kirkconnell is the grave of the fair Ellen Irvine, and that of her Lover : She was daughter of the house of 
" Kirkconnell, and was beloved by two Gentlemen at the same time ; the one vowed to sacrifice the successful 
" rival to his resentment, and watched an opportunity while the happy pair were sitting on the banks of the Kirtle 
" that washes these grounds. Ellen perceived the desperate lover on the opposite side, and fondly thinking to 
" save her favourite, interposed, and receiving the wound intended for her beloved, fell, and expired in his arms. 
" He instantly revenged her death, then fled into Spain, and served for some time against the Infidels. On hi» 
" return he visited the grave of his unfortunate Mistress, stretched himself on it, and, expiring on the spot, was 
" interred by her side. A sword and a cross are engraven on the tombstone, with ' Hie jacet Adam Fleming :' 
" the only memorial of this unhappy gentleman, except an ancient Ballad, of no great merit, which records the 
" tragical event " Mr Pennant probably alludes to that edition ol the ballad which has since been given in the 
Statistical Account of the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleming ; it is much longer than the above, and contains ioue 
meagre and incongruous verses. 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 

WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY MRS GRANT. 



O were I laid where Colin lies, 
Could I but close these weary eyes, 
And wake no more, with fruitless sighs, 
The joyless day to see. 

Or if I still must languish here, 
Would but his passing shade appear ! 
And whisper soft in fancy's car, 

" Come, Love, I wait for thee !" 

When these sad eyes have ceas'd to weep, 
And weary woe is lost in sleep, 
Though drowsy dews my senses steep, 
My soul still wakes with thee. 

Tis then I rest from pain awhile, 
And hear thy voice, and see thy smile, 



And all my secret griefs beguile, 

Those griefs so dear to me! 

My life, my soul, my all is gone, 
Forlorn I wander here alone, 
O were but this my parting groan, 
For death is life to me ! 

For though I knew some magic art, 
To blot thy image from my heart. 
With that lov'd form I ne'er would part 
Till death should set me free ! 

Then where our mingled ashes sleep. 
Shall faithful lovers meet to weep, 
And tenderest vows in sorrows steep, 
To love as true as we ! 



22 



JOHNIE COPE. 



The Editor has carefully consulted and collated the various editions of this curious Jacobite Song ; and he hopes 
it will here be found in its most complete state. 



feiR John Cope trode the North right far, 

Yet ne'er a rebel he came n'ar, 

Until he landed at Dunbar, 

Eight early in a morning. 

Hey Johnie Cope are ye waking yet, 
Or are ye sleeping I wou'd wit, 
Make haste, get up, for the drums do beat, 
O fie, Cope, rise in the morning. 

Cope wrote a challenge from Dunbar, 
Come meet me, Charlie, if you dare, 
If it be not by the chance of war, 
I'll gi'e you a merry morning. 
When Charlie look'd the letter on, 
He swore by his sword and his father's throne,* 
" So heav'n restore me to my own, 
u I'll meet you, Cope, in the morning. 
Hey Johnie Cope, &c. 

" Then Johnie be as good's your word, 
" And let us try both fire and sword, 
" And dinna flee like a frighted bird, 
" That's chas'd frae its nest in the morning." 
When Johnie Cope got word o' this, 
He thought it would na be amiss 
To hae a horse in readiness, 
Whate'er might hap in the morning. 
Hey Johnie Cope, &c. 



And when he heard the bagpipes din, 
Good faith, thought he, it's time to rin, 
It's best to sleep in a hale skin, 
For 'twill be a bloody morning. 
But when he saw the Highland lads, 
Wi' tartan trews and white cockades, 
Wi' swords and guns, and rungs, and gauds, 
He gallop'd off in the morning. 
Hey Johnie Cope, &c. 

For all their bombs and bomb-granades, 
They cou'd na face the Highland lads, 
But to the hills scour'd afF in squads, 
Pursued by the clans in the morning. 
Sir Johnie straight to Berwick rade, 
As if the Deil had been his guide, 
Gi'en him the world, he wou'd na stay'd, 
To have fought the boys in the morning. 
Hey Johnie Cope, &c. 

Said the Berwickers unto Sir John, 
O what's become of all your men? 
The Deil confound me if I ken, 
For I left them a' in the morning. 
Said Lord Mark Car, ye are na blate, 
To bring us the news of your ain defeat, 
And leave your men in sic a strait, 
Get out o' my sight this morning. 



In faith, quo' John, I got my flegs, 

With their claymores and philabegs ; 

If I face them again, deil break my legs, 

So I wish you a good morning. 

Hey Johnie Cope are ye waking yet, 
Or are ye sleeping I wou'd wit ; 
Make haste, get up, for the drums do beat, 
O fie, Cope, rise in the morning. 



* In the original, " He drew his sword the scabbard from," a poor line and false rhyme, which the Editor 

has taken the liberty to alter as above. 



22. 



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23. 



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23 



THOU'RT GANE AWA' FRAE ME, MARY. 



Thou'ht gane avva', thou'rt gane awa', 

Thou'rt gane awa' frae me, Mary ; 
Nor friends nor I could make thee stay, 

Thou'st cheated them and me, Mary. 
Until this hour I never thought 

That aught could alter thee, Mary, 
Thou'rt still the mistress of my heart, 

Think what you will of me, Mary. 



Whate'er he said, or might pretend, 

Wha stole that heart of thine, Mary ; 
True love, I'm sure, was ne'er his end, 

Or nae such love as mine, Mary. 
1 spoke sincere, nor flattered much, 

Had no unworthy thoughts, Mary j 
Ambition, wealth, nor naething such, 

No, I lov'd only thee, Mary ! 



Tho' you've been false, yet while I live 

No other maid I'll woo, Mary ; 
Let friends forget, as I forgive 

Thy wrongs to them and me, Mary. 
So then, farewell ! of this be sure, 

Since you've been false to me, Mary, 
For all the world I'd not endure 

Half what I've done for thee, Mary. 



SONG TO THE SAME AIR, 



WRITTEH 



BY WILLIAM FALCONER. 



T- he smiling plains, profusely gay, 
Are dress'd in all the pride of May ; 
The birds around, in every vale, 
Breathe rapture on the vocal gale. 
But, ah ! Miranda, without thee, 
Nor spring nor summer smiles on me ! 
All lonely in the secret shade, 
I mourn thy absence, charming maid. 



O soft as love ! as honour fair ! 
More gently sweet than vernal air ! 
Come to my arms, for you alone 
Can all my anguish past atone ! 
O come, and to my bleeding heart 
Th' ambrosial balm of love impart ! 
Thy presence lasting joy shall bring, 
And give the year eternal spring 



VOL. IV. 



24 

THE EAST NEUK O' FIFE, 

THE SONG WRITTEN 

BY SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. 

AND PRESENTED BY Bill TO THE EDITOR. 



She. Auld gudeman, ye're a drunken carle, drunken carle, 
A' the lang day ye wink and drink, and gape and gaunt ; 
Of sottish loons ye're the pink and pearl, pink and pearl, 
111 far'd, doited, ne'er-do-weel ! 
He. Hech, gudewife, ye're a flytin body, flytin body ; 

Will ye hae, but, gude be prais'd, the-iwY ye want ; 
The putting cow should be ay a doddy, ay a doddy, 
Mak na sic an awsome reel. 
She. Ye're a sow, auld man, 

Ye get fu', auld man, 
Fye shame ! auld man, 
To your wame, auld man, 
Pinch'd 1 win, wi' spinnin tow, 
A plack to dead your back and pow ! 
He. It's a lie, gudewife, 

It's your tea, gudewife : 
Na, na, gudewife, 
Ye spend a' gudewife, 
Dinna fa' on me, pell-mell, 
Ye like a drap, fu' weel, yoursel ! 

She. Ye's rue, auld gowk, your jest and frolic, jest and frolic, 
Dare ye say, goose, I ever lik'd to tak a drappy ? 
An 'twere na just for to cure the cholic, cure the cholic, 
Deil a drap wad weet my mou. 
He. Troth, gudewife, ye wadna swither, wadna swither, 

Soon soon to tak a cholic, when it brings a drap o' cappy ; 
But twa score o' years we hae fought thegether, fought thegether, 
Time it is to gree, I trow. 
She. I'm wrang, auld John, 

Owr lang, auld John, 
For nought, gude John, 
"We ha'e fought, gude John : 
Let's help to bear ilk ither's weight, 
We're far owr feckless now to feght. 
He. Ye're right, gudewife, 

The night, gudewife, 
Our cup, good Kate, 
We'll sup, good Kate ; 
Thegither frae this hour we'll draw, 
And toom the stoup atween us twa ! 



THE EAST JSTEUK OF FIFE. 



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Vol: 4. 



25 



MUIKLAND WILLY. 



THE SYMrHONIEi AND ACCOMPANIMENT HERE FIRST PUBLISHED 1S22. 



xIabken and I will tell you how 
Young muirland Willie came to woo, 
Tho' he cou'd neither say nor do 

The truth I tell to you, 
But ay he cries, whate'er betide, 
Maggy I'se hae to be my bride, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

On his gray mare as he did ride, 
Wi' durk and pistol by his side, 
He prick'd her on wi' meikle pride, 

Wi' meikle mirth and glee, 
Out o'er yon moss, out o'er yon muir, 
Till he came to her daddy's door, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

Goodman, quoth he, be ye within, 
I'm come your doughttr's love to win, 
I carena for making meikle din ; 

What answer gi'e ye me ? 
Now, wooer, quoth he, will ye light down, 
I'll gi'e ye my doughter's love to win, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

Now wooer, sin' ye are lighted down, 
Where do ye won, or in what town ? 
I think my doughter winna gloom 

On sic a lad as ye. 
The wooer he step'd into the house, 
And wow but he was wondrous crouse, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

I have three owsen in a pleugh, 

Twa gude ga'en yades and gear enough, 

The place they ca' it Cauldenough ; 

I scorn to tell a lie : 
Besides, I hae frae the great laird, 
A peat pat, and a lang kail yard, 
With a fal, dal, fa. 

The maid put on her kirtle brown. 
She was the brawest in a' the town ; 
I wat on him she didna gloom, 

But blinkit bonnilie. 
The lover he stended up in haste, 
And gript her hard about the waist; 

With a fal, dal, fa. 



To win your love, maid, I'm come here, 
I'm young, and hae enough o' gear ; 
And for mysell ye needna fear. 

Troth tak me whan you like. 
He took aft' his bonnet, and spat out his chew. 
He dighteJ his gab, and pree d her mou', 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

The maiden blush'd, and bing'd fu' law, 
She hadna will to say him na, 
But to her daddy she lelt it a', 

As they twa cou'd agree. 
The lover he ga'e her the tither kiss, 
Syne ran to her daddy, and tell'd him this, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

Your doughter wad na say me na, 
But to yoursell she's left it a', 
As we cou'd gree between us twa ; 

Say, what'll ye gi'e me wi' her ? 
Now, wooer, quoth he, I hae na meikle, 
But sic's 1 hae, ye's get a pickle, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

A kilnfu' o' corn I'll gi'e to thee, 

Three soums of sheep, twa good milk kye, 

Yc's hae the wedding-dinner free ; 

Troth I dow do nae mair. 
Content, quo' he, a bargain be't, 
I'm far frae hame, mak' haste, let's do't, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

The bridal-day it came to pass, 
Wi' mony a blythsome lad and lass ; 
But sicken a day there never was, 

Sic mirth was never seen. 
This winsome couple straked hands, 
Mess John ty'd up the marriage-bands, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

And our bride's maidens were na few 
Wi' tup. knots, lug-knots, a' in blue 
Frae tap to tae they were bra new 

And blinkit bonnilie. 
Their toys and mutches wer e sae clean, 
They glanced in our lad s - s een 

With a fal, dal, fa. 



Sic hirdum, dirdum, and sic din, 
Sic daffin, laughing, and sic fun, 
The minstrels they did never blin', 

Wi' meikle mirth and glee. 
And ay they bobit, and ay they beek't, 
And ay they cross 'd, and merrily met, 

With a fal, dal, fa. 

* The critical observer will find, that the Editor has taken the liberty of altering two lines of the last stanza, viz. 
the second and the sixth. He thought it a pity that there should be any thing in such a truly excellent song to 
render it objectionable in good company. But lest he should fall under the heavy displeasure of the antiquary, he 
shall subjoin the original lines. Would it were in his power to add the Name of the Author of the above most mas- 
terly composition. Burns, with his characteristic enthusiasm, said, it had given him many a heart-ache to think, 
that the men of genius who had composed our fine Scottish lyrics should be unknown. 

Original lines. 

2. Wi' he o'er her, and she o'er him. 
6. And ay their wames together met 



26 



MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. 

THE SOXG WRITTEN 
ST BURKS. 

THE MESIC AND TERSE* HERE FIR8T TKITED 1822. 



Oh ! wert thou in the cauldest blast, 
On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or, did Misfortune's bitter storms 
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom ay 
To share it a', to share it a'. 

Oh ! were I on the wildest waste, 
Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 
If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or, were I monarch of the globe, 
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The brightest jewel in my crown 
Would be my queen, would be my queen. 






26. MY LOVE IS BUT A LASSIE YET. 

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OLD AND NEW TIMES, 

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27 



OLD AND NEW TIMES. 

WRITTEN BY 

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. 

AND PRESENTED BY HIM TO THE EDITOR. 



AIR— KELLYBURN BRAES. 

Hech ! what a change ha'e we now in this town ! 

The lads a' sae braw, the lasses sae glancin', 
Folk maun be dizzie gaun ay in the roun', 

For de'il a haet's done now but feastin' and dancin'. 

Gowd's no that scanty in ilk siller pock, 

When ilka bit laddie maun ha'e his bit staigie ; 

But I kent the day when there was nae a Jock 
But trotted about upon honest shanks-nagie. 

Little was stown then, and less gaed to waste, 
Barely a mullin for mice or for rattens j 

The thrifty housewife to the flesh-market paced, 
Her equipage a' — just a gude pair o' pattens. 

Folk were as good then, and friends were as leal, 
Tho' coaches were scant, wi' their cattle a-cantrin' ; 

Right air we were tell't by the house-maid or chiel, 
Sir t an' ye please, here's your lass and a lantern. 

The town may be clouted and pieced, till it meets 
A' neebours benorth and besouth, without haltin', 

Brigs may be biggit owr lums and owr streets, 
The Nor'loch itsel' heap'd heigh as the Calton. 

But whar is true friendship, and whar will you see 
A' that is gude, honest, modest, and thrifty ? 

Tak' grey hairs and wrinkles, and hirple wi' me, 
And think on the seventeen hundred and fifty. 

VOL. IV. G 



28 



JOHN O' BADENYON. 



WRITTEN BY 



THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 



W hen first I came to be a man, 

Of twenty years or so, 
I thought myself a handsome youth, 

And fain the world would know ; 
In best attire I stept abroad, 

"With spirits brisk and gay, 
And here and there, and every where, 

Was like a morn in May. 
No care I had, nor fear of want, 

But rambled up and down ; 
And for a beau 1 might have pass'd 

In country or in town : 
I still was pleas'd where'er I went, 

And when I was alone, 
I tuned my pipe, and pleased myself 

With John of Badenyon. 



I thought I should be wiser next, 

And would a Patriot turn; 
Began to dote on Johny Wilkes, 

And cry up Parson Home. 
Their noble spirit I admir'd, 

And prais'd their manly zeal, 
Who had, with flaming tongue and pen, 

Maintain'd the public weal. 
But ere a month or two was past, 

I found myself betrayed ; 
'Twas self aud parti/ after all, 

For all the stir they made. 
At last 1 saw these factious knaves 

Insult the very throne; 
I curs'd them all, and tuned my pipe 

To John of Badenyon. 



Now, in the days of youthful prime, 

A Mistress I must find ; 
Tor love, they say, gives one an air, 

And ev'n improves the mind : 
On Phillis fair, above the rest, 

Kind fortune fixed my eyes ; 
Her piercing beauty struck my heart, 

And she became my choice. 
To Cupid, then, with hearty prayer, 

I offcr'd many a vow, 
And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore, 

As other lovers do: 
But when at last I breath'd my flame, 

I found her cold as stone ; 
I left the girl, and tuned my pipe 

To John of Badenyon. 



What next to do, I mused a while. 

Still hoping to succeed ; 
I pitch'd on Books for company, 

And gravely tried to read ; 
I bought and borrow'd every where, 

And studied night and day, 
Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote 

That happen'd in my way. 
Philosophy I now esteem'd 

The ornament of youth, 
And carefully, through many a page, 

I hunted after truth : 
A thousand various schemes I tried, 

And yet was pleas'd with none; 
I threw them by, and tuned my pipe 

To John of Badenyon. 



When love had thus my heart beguil'd 

With foolish hopes and vain, 
To Friendship's port 1 steer'd my course, 

And laugh'd at lovers' pain: 
A friend 1 got by lucky chance, 

'Twas something like divine ; 
An honest friend's a precious gift, 

And such a gift was mine. 
And now, whatever might betide, 

A happy man was I ; 
In any strait I knew to whom 

I freely might apply : 
A strait soon came, my friend I tried, 

He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; 
I hied me home, and tuned my pipe 

To John of Badenyon. 



And now, ye youngsters, every where, 

Who want to make a show, 
Take heed in time, nor vainly hope 

For happiness below. 
What you may fancy pleasure here 

Is but an empty name; 
For girls, and friends, and books, and so, 

You'll find them ail the same. 
Then be advis'd, and warning take, 

From such a man as me ; 
I'm neither pope nor cardinal, 

Nor one of high degree ; 
You'll find displeasure every where, 

Then do as 1 have done, 
E'en tune your pipe, and please yourself 

With John of Badenyon^ 



28. 



JOHN OF BADEJNTYCXN 



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Win of Ba_dai-yon^ 



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29. 



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29 

ROTHIEMURCHUS' RANT. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY BUBNS. 



Lassie wi' the Iintwhite locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie ! 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

Now Nature cleads the flow'ry lea, 

And a' is young and sweot like thee ; 

O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt he my dearie O ? 

Lassie wi' the Iintwhite locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie ! 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 
And when the welcome summer show'r 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flow'r, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bow'r, 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 



Lassie wi' the Iintwhite locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie ! 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 
When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's, hame ward way, 
Thro' yellow, waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk of love, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the Iintwhite locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie ! 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 
And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest, 
Enclasped to my faithful breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 

WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY BURNS. 



Fairest maid on Devon banks ! 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou wert wont to do ? 
Full well thou know'st I love thee dear ; 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O did not Love exclaim, " Forbear ! 

" Nor use a faithful lover so ?" 



Fairest maid on Devon banks ! 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou wert wont to do ! 
Then come, thou fairest of the fair ; 
Those wonted smiles, O let me share ! 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 

No love but mine my heart shall know. 



Note, — " Fairest Maid on Devon Banks," it is believed, was the very last production of our much lamented Bard : 
He transmitted it to the Editor about a week only before his death. 



30 



JF A BODY MEET A BODY. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY BURNS. 



O Tibbie ! I ha'e seen the day 

Ye would na been sae shy ; 
For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 

But troth I care na by. 
Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spake na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 

But fient a hair care I. 

Tibbie ! I hae seen the day 
Ye would na been sae shy ; 

For lack o T gear ye lightly me, 
But troth I carena by. 

1 doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye ha'e the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 

Whene'er ye like to try. 

O Tibbie ! I ha'e seen the day 

Ye would na been sae shy ; 
For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 

But troth I care na by. 
But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean, 
Although his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 



O Tibbie ! I hae seen the day - 

Ye would na been sae shy ; 
For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 

But troth I care na by. 
Although a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If he but want the miser's dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 

O Tibbie ! I ha'e seen the day 

Ye would nae been sae shy ; 

For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 

But troth I care na by. 
But if he ha'e the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Th-o' hardly he, for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 

O Tibbie ! I ha'e seen the day 
Ye would nae been sae shy j 

For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 
But troth I care na by. 

But Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice, 

Your daddy's gear makes you sae nice ; 

The deil a ane would spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 



Tibbie ! I ha'e seen the day 
Ye would na been sae shy ; 

For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 

But troth I care na by. 
There lives a lass in yonder park, 

1 would nae gi'e her under sark 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand merk,- 

Ye need na look sae high. 




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31 



THE GABERLUNZIE MAN,— OR TINKER. 

SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN 

BY KING JAMES V. 



AIR, THE BRISK YOUNG LAD. 

The Editor, in order to free this excellent humorous old Ballad of whatever might now be deemed exceptionable in 
it, has taken the liberty to alter the eighth stanza, and two other lines of the original ; although the Antiquary 
cannot have a greater respect for the original than he has, or a wish to be more sparing of alteration. The 
Music required that in some lines the word Caberlunzie should be shortcn'd into Gab'lunzie. 



J- he pawky auld carle came o'er the lea, 
Wi' mouy good-eens and days to me ; 
Saying, gudewife, for your courtesie, 

Will ye lodge a silly poor man ? 
The night was cauld, the carle was wat, 
And down ayint the ingle he sat; 
My doughtcr's shouthers he 'gan to clap, 

And cadgily ranted and saug. 

O wow ! quo' he, were I as free 
As first when I saw this countrie, 
How blythe and merry wad I be ! 

And I wad ne'er think lang. 
He grew canly, she grew fain, 
But little did her auld minny ken 
What thir sice twa together were saying, 

When wcuing they were sae thrang. 

And O ! quo' lie, were ye as black 
As e'er the crown o' my daddie's hat, 
On a' my i in I'd turn my back, 

And awa wi' thee I'd gang. 
And O ! quo' >he, were I as while, 
As e'er the snaw lay on the dyke, 
I'd cleid me braw, and lady like, 

And awa wi' thee I'd gang. 

Between the twa was made a plot ; 
They raise a wee before the cock, 
And wylily they shot the lock, 

And fast to the bent they're gone. 
Up in the morn the auld wile raise, 
And at her Ici nre put on her claise ; 
Syne to the servant's bed she gaes, 

To spier for the silly poor man. 

She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, 
The strae was cauld, he was away; 
She clap! her hands, cry'd, dulefu' day ! 

For some o' our gear will be gane. 
Some ran to coO'er, and some to kist, 
But nought was stown that cou'd be misit; 
She dane'd her lane, cry'd, praise be blest '. 

I have lo Jg'd a leal poor m an. 



Since naethiug's awa, as we can learn, 

The kirn's to kirn, and milk to yearn, 

Gae but the house, lass, and waken my bairn. 

And bid her come quickly hen. 
The servant gaed where the doughter lay, 
The sheets were cauld, she was away, 
Gudewife, she cried, O well-a-day, 

She's aff wi' the silly poor man 1 

O fy gar ride, and fy gar lin, 

And haste, these traitors find again '. 

For she's be burnt, and he's be slain, 

The wearilu' beggarly man ! 
Some rode upo' horse, some ran afit, 
The wife was wud, and out o' her wit, , 

She coudna gang, nor yet could she sit, 

But ay she curs'd and she bann'd. 

Mean time, far o'er the lily lea, 

The twa with hearts sae blythe and free, 

Sat safe ber.eath a hawthorn tree, 

Where a wimpling burnie ran. 
To lo'e her foi ay he gave her his aith, 
Quoth she, to leave thee I will be laith, 
For I with thee can fear nae skaith, 

My winsome Gab'lunzie man. 

O kend my minnie I were wi' you, 
Ill-fardly wad she crook her mou ; 
Sic a poor man she'd never trow, 

After the Gab'lunzie man. 
My dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young. 
And hac nae learnt the beggars tongue, 
To earn' wi' me Irae town to town 
The Gaberlunzic on. 

Wi' cauk and keil I'll win your bread, 

And spinnels and whorles for them wha need ; 

Whilk is a gentle trade to speed 

The Gaberlunzie on. 
I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, 
And draw a black clout o'er my e'e ; 
A cripple or blind they will ca' me, 

While we shall be merry and sing. 



VOL. IV. 



TIBBIE FOWLER. 

THE SYMPHONIES AND HARMONY NEW, AND FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1822. 



A ibbie Fowler o' the glen, 

There's o'er mony wooing at her ; 
Seven hut, and seven ben, 

And mony ruair are wooing at her. 
Wooing at her, puing at her, 

Courting at her, canna get her ; 
Filthy elf, it's for her pelf 

That a' the lads are wooing at her. 
Wooing at her, fyc. 

Ten cam east, and ten cam west, 

Ten cam rowing o'er the water ; 
Twa cam down the lang dyke-side, 

There's twa and thirty wooing at her. 
Wooing at her, puing at her, 

Courting at her, canna get her; 
Filthy elf, it's for her pelf 

That a' the lads are wooing at her. 
Wooing at her, fyc. 



She's got pendles in her lugs, 

Cockle-shells wad set her better ; 
High-heel'd shoon and siller tags, 

And a' the lads are wooing at her. 
Wooing at her, puing at her, 

Courting at her, canna get her ; 
Filthy elf, it's for her pelf 

That a' the lads are wooing at her. 
Wooing at her, fyc. 

Be a lassie e'er sae black, 

If she hae the name o' siller, 
Set her up on Tintoc tap, 

The wind will blaw a man till her. 
Be a lassie e'er sae fair, 

If she want the penny siller, 
A flie may fell her in the air 

Before there come a man till her. 
Wooing at her, fyc. 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 

WRITTEN 

BY BURNS. 



Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Lincumdoddie ; 

Willie was a wabster gude, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie. 

He had a wife was dour and din, 

Tinkler Madgie was her mither j 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

1 wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa, the very colour j 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller : 

A whiskin beard about her mou', 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither j 
Sic a wife, fyc. 



She's how-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife, fyc. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

And wi' her loof her face a washin ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion 
Her walie nieves, like midden-creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan-water ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 



32. TIBUY KOW LER. 

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33 



CLEKK EICHARD AND MAID MARGARET. 

Written in imitation of the old English ballad style. It first appeared in the Enquirer, a periodical work published 
at Glasgow ; and is here given in modern orthography, by permission of the Author, 

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, ESQ. 

The Air, with the Symphonies and Accompaniment by R. A. Smith, now first published, 1822. 



A man must nodes love maugre his lied, 

He may notjken it though he should be ded.- 



-Chaucer. 



J. here were two who loved each other 
For many years, 'till hate did start ; 

And yet they never quite could smother 
The former love that warm'd their heart ; 

And both did love, and both did hate ; 

Till both fulfill'd the will of fate. 

Years after, and the maid did marry 

One that her heart had ne'er approv'd j 

Nor longer could Clerk Richard tarry, 
Where he had lost all that he lov'd : 

To foreign lands he reckless went, 

To nourish love, hate, discontent. 

A word, an idle word of folly, 

Had spill'd their love when it was young ; 
And hatred, grief, and melancholy, 

In either heart as idly sprung : 
And yet they loved, and hate did wane, 
And much they wished to meet again. 

Of Richard still is Margaret dreaming, 
His image lingered in her breast ; 

And oft at midnight to her seeming 
Her former lover stood confest ; 

And shedding on her bosom tears, 

The bitter wrecks of happier years. 

Where'er he went by land or ocean, 

Still Richard sees Dame Margaret there ; 

And every throb and kind emotion 
His bosom knew were felt for her ; 

And never new love hath he cherished, 

The power to love with first love perished. 



Homeward is Clerk Richard sailing, 
An altered man from him of old ; 
His hate had changed to bitter wailing, 

And love resumed its wonted hold 
Upon his heart, which yearned to see 
The haunts and loves of infancy. 

He knew her faithless, — nathless ever 
He loved her though no more his own ; 

Nor could he proudly now dissever 

The chain that round his heart was thrown ; 

He loved her, without hope, yet true, 

And sought her, but to say adieu. 

For even in parting there is pleasure, 
A sad sweet joy that wrings the soul ; 

And there is grief surpassing measure, 
That will not bide nor brook controul j 

And yet a formal fond leave taking, 

Does ease the heart albeit by breaking. 

Oh! there is something in the feeling, 
And trembling faulter of the hand j 

And something in the tear down stealing, 
And voice so broken, yet so bland ; 

And something in the word farewell, 

Which worketh like a powerfull spell. 

These lovers met and never parted ; 

They met as lovers wont to do, 
Who meet when both are broken-hearted, 

To breathe a last and long adieu. 
Pale Margaret wept, Clerk Richard sighed, 
And in each other's arms they died. 



34f 



THE LEA-RIG. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY BURNS. 



VV hen o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrowed field 

Return sae dowf and weary O : 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi 1 dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea -rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen, 
I'd rove and ne'er be irie 0, 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 
My ain kind dearie O. 



Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 
And I were ne'er sae weary O, 

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo J 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Adown the burn to steer, my jo : 
Gi'e me the hour o' gloamin grey, 

It makes my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind deary O. 



SONG FOR THE SAME AIR. 

WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY A LADY. 



Ye braes of Touch,* how sweet ye smile, 

When ev'ning lingers in the sky ; 
Your lovely shades my cares beguile 

Ev'n seen thro' sorrow's wat'ry eye. 
Not fairer flowers Arcadia blest, 

Not sweeter Tempe's verdant vale, 
"When in thy green retreats I rest, 

Where music floats on ev'ry gale. 

Ye braes of Touch, how fresh ye bloom 

When spring calls forth her earliest flow'rs, 

I feel my heart its peace resume 

When shelter'd in your vocal bow'rs. 



Your dashing falls, your tranquil groves, 

Your wand'ring streams that murmur sweet, 

Where ease reclines, and freedom roves 
Around the Muse's fav'rite seat. 

Your every wildly varied charm, 

When bright with summer's ardent beams, 
Can wounded mem'ry's power disarm, 

And raise the soul to hapgier themes. 
Ye braes of Touch, how gay ye smile, 

When rising larks salute the day, 
Your rural charms my cares beguile, 

And wake the long forgotten lay. 



* Touch, near Stirling, the seat of Archibald Seton, Esq — The word is pronounc'd with the guttural sound of 
the Scottish dialect; hut as that sound would be difficult to the English singer, it may be pronounced as if it were 
ipell'd Took. 



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35 



JOHNY FAW.-OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE. 



Some verses, commonly printed as part of this ballad, are here omitted, as being unfit for this work. Burns, in his 
Memoranda on Scottish Song, says, that Johny Faw is the only old Song which he could ever trace as belonging 
to the extensive county of Ayr. 



X he Gypsies came to our good lord's gate, 

And wow but they sang sweetly ; 
They sang sae sweet, and sae coinpleat, 

That down came our fair lady. 

And she came tripping down the 6tair, 

Wi' a' her maids before her ; 
As soon as they saw her weel-far'd face, 

They coost the glamer o'er her. 

' O come with me,' says Johny Faw, 

' O come with me, my deary ; 
' For I vow and swear, by the hilt of my sword, 

' Your lord shall nae mair come near ye.' 

" Here, tak frae me this gay mantile, 

" And bring to me a plaidie ; 
" Tho' kith and kin and a' had sworn, 

" I'll follow the gypsie laddie. 



" Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed, 
" And my good lord beside me ; 

" This night I'll ly in a tenant's barn, 
" Whatever shall betide me." 

And when our lord came hame at e'en, 

And speir'd for his fair lady, 
The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd, 

" She's awa wi' the gypsie laddie." 

" Gae saddle to me the black black steed, 
" Gae saddle and make him ready, 

" Before I either eat or sleep, 
" I'll gae seek my fair lady." 

And we were fifteen well-made men, 

Of courage stout and steady, 
And we were a' put down for ane, 

A fair young wanton lady. 



A person of the name of Johne Faw is said to have been king- of the gypsies in the time of James V., who, about the 
year 1542, issued a curious proclamation, ordaining all sheriffs, &c. to assist Johne Faw, there stiled, " Lord and 
" Erie of Litill Egipt," in seizing and securing certain fugitive gypsies, in order that they might be punished by 
Johne, their lord and master, conform to his laws : for which purpose the magistrates were to lend him their pri- 
sons stocks, fetters, &c. And the king charges his lieges not to molest the said Johne Faw, and his company, in 
their lawful business within the realm, or in passing through, remaining in, or going forth of the same, under pe- 
nalty ; and all skippers, masters of ships, and mariners \Vere ordered to receive him and his company, upon their 
expenses, for furthering them to parts beyond sea. — See M'Laurin's Remarkable Cases, p. 77*. 

It is not improbable that this Johne Faw is the Hero of the above ballad ; and the rank and title of the Heroine 
seems to be ascertained, from the following verse of a different copy : 



There was seven gypsies in a gang, 
And they were brisk and bonny, O, 

And they're to be hanged all in a row, 
For the Erie of Castle's * lady, O. 



* Cassitis. 



WAE'S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE. 

FOB THE SAME AIR. 



A. wee bird came to our ha' door, 

He warbled sweet and clearly, 
And ay the o'ercome o' his sang 

Was " Wae's me for Prince Charlie !" 
Oh 1 when 1 heard the bonny bonny bird, 

The tears came drapping rarely, 
I took my bannet aff my head, 

For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. 

Quo' I, ' My bird, my bonny bonny bird, 

' Is that a tale ye borrow ? 
' Or is't some words ye've learnt by rote, 

' Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow ?' 
" Oh ! no, no, no," the wee bird sang, 

" I've flown sin morning early ; 
" But sic a day o' wind and rain ! 

" Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

" On hills that are by right his ain, 
" He roams, a lonely stranger ; 

" On ilka hand he's press'd by want, 
" On ilka side by danger. 

TOL. IT. 



" Yestreen I met him in a glen, 

" My heart near bursted fairly, 
" For sadly chang'd indeed was he, 

" Oh 1 wae's me for Prince Charlie '. 

" Dark night came on, the tempest howl'd 

" Out-owre the hills and valleys ; 
" And whare was't that your prince lay down, 

" Whase hame should been a palace ? 
" He row'd him in a highland plaid, 

" Which cover'd him but sparely, 
" And slept beneath a bush o' broom, 

" Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie !" 

But now the bird saw some red-coats. 

And he shook his wings wi' anger: 
" O this is no a land for me, 

" I'll tarry here nae langer." 
A while he hover'd on the wing, 

Ere he departed fairly: 
But weel I mind the fareweel strain ; 

'Twas " Wae's me for Prince Charlie I" 



36 



JENNY'S BAWBEE. 



THE SONG WRITTEN 



BY SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. 



AND PRESENTED BY HIM TO THE EDITOR. 



I met four chaps yon birks amang, 
Wi' hinging lugs and faces lang ; 
I speer'd at neebour Bauldy Strang 

Wha's thae I see ? 
Quo' he, ilk cream-fac'd pawky chiel, 
Thought he was cunning as the de'il, 
And here they came, awa to steal 

Jenny's bawbee. 

The first, a Captain to his trade, 

Wi' skull ill -lined, but back weel clad, 

March'd round the barn, and by the shed, 

And pap'd on his knee : 
Quo' he, " My goddess, nymph, and queen, 
" Your beauty's dazzled baith my een !" 
But de'il a beauty he had seen 

But — Jenny's bawbee. 

A Lawyer neist, wi' blethrin gab, 
Wha speeches wove like ony wab, 
In ilk ane's corn ay took a dab, 

And a' for a fee. 
Accounts he ow'd through a' the town, 



A Norland Laird neist trotted up, 
Wi' bawsend nag and siller whup, 
Cried, " There's my beast, lad, had the grup, 

" Or tie 't till a tree : 
" What's gowd to me, I've wealth o' Ian', 
" Bestow on ane o' worth your ban'." 
He thought to pay what he was awn 

Wi' Jenny's bawbee. 

Dress'd up just like the knave o' clubs, 
A thing came neist, (but life has rubs,) 
Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs, 

And jaupit a' was he. 
He danc'd up, squintin through a glass, 
And grinn'd, " I' faith a bonnie lass !" 
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass, 

Jenny's bawbee. 

She bade the Laird gae kaim his wig, 
The Soger no to strut sae big, 
The Lawyer no to be a prig, 

The Fool cry'd, " Tehee ! 
" I kent that I could never fail !" 



And tradesmen's tongues nae mair cou'd drown, But she prinn'd the dish-clout to bis tail, 
But now he thought to clout his gown And sous'd him wi' a water-pail, 

Wi' Jenny's bawbee. And kept her bawbee ! 



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37 



FLORA TO COLIN. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE GAELIC FOR THIS WORK, 



BY MRS GRANT, LAGGAN. 



HIGHLAND AIR— CRO CHALL1N. 

The following Song, from the Gaelic, when sent to the Editor, was accompanied by some remarks of the Translator, 
which shall here be prefixed : " The verses of Cro Challin have lived from the days when agriculture was in 
" its infancy, and continue still to soothe every fold, and lull every cradle in these wild regions. A literal transla- 
•" lion I don't pretend to give, but I will venture to appeal to every judge of Gaelic and of poetry, 'whether I have 
" not rendered the spirit of this curious fragment of antiquity. The changes which time and culture have effect- 
" ed on manners are best traced in popular songs, more particularly the Gaelic fragments, in which the transi- 
" tions from the life of a HuDter to that of a Herdsman, and from that to the more laborious and stationary pur- 
" suits of Agriculture, are strongly marked. Anciently the Hunter was admired as a persoD of manly courage, 
" who, in the pursuit of a livelihood, exerted the virtues of patience and fortitude, and followed Nature into her 
" most sublime retirements. Herdsmen were then accounted the sons of little men ; sordid, inferior beings, who 
" preferred ease and safety to noble daring, and boundless variety ; and were considered to be as much below 
" the Hunter, as the cattle they tended were inferior in grace and agility to the deer the others pursued. Inter- 
" est, however, reversed such opinions: In process of time the maidens boasted of the numerous herds of their 
" lovers, and viewed the Huntsman as a poor wandering adventurer. About this time the Song here translated 
" seems to have been composed. The enamoured nymph, willing to think Colin as rich as others, talks in an 
" obscure and figurative manner of the Cattle of Colin (Cro Chalin,) and pursues the metaphor through many 
" playful allusions to the deer, roes, fawns, &c. and their manner of sporting and feeding, in a style too minute for 
" translation : In the end, however, it appears, that the boasted cattle of Colin were no other than those wild com- 
" moners of nature, and his sole profession that of hunting ! I have endeavoured to preserve the tender simplicity 
" of the original, and to render, almost literally, the fond repetition of endearing epithets. The love-songs of those 
'* days were the breathings of real passion : nobody thought of that most absurd of all things, — a fictitious love-song : 

■ " It is silly sooth, 

" And dallies with the innocence of love, 
" like the old age." 

IVIy Colin, lov'd Colin, my Colin, my dear: O Colin, sweet Colin, my Colin, my joy ! 

Who wont the wild mountains to trace without fear; Must those flocks and those herds all thy moments employ '. 

O where are thy flocks that so swiftly rebound, 

And fly o'er the heath without touching the ground ? To yon waterfall's dashing I tune my sad strain,- 

And gather these violets for Colin in vain; 
So dappled, so varied, so beauteous their hue, At sun-set he said he would meet with me here. 

So agile, so graceful, so charming to view ; Then where can he linger, my Colin, my dear ? 

O'er all the wide forest there's nought can compeer 
■With the light-bounding flocks of my Colin, my dear. O Colin, my darling, my pleasure, my pride ! 

While the flocks of rich shepherds are grazing so wide, 
My Colin, dear Colin, my Colin, my love: . Regardless I view them, unheeded the swains, 

O where are thy herds that so loftily move, Whose herds scatter'd round me adorn the green plains. 

With branches so stately their proud heads are crown'd, 
.With their motion so rapid the woods all resound. Their offers I hear, and their plenty I see, 

But what are their wealth and their oilers to me ; 
Where the birch-trees hang weeping o'er fountains so clear, While the light-bonnding roes, and the wild mountain deer, 
At noon-day they're sleeping round Colin, my dear. Are the cattle of Colin, my hunter, my dear I 



38 



COLIN'S ANSWER. 



WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 



BY MRS GBANT. 



AIR,— THE ROCK AND A WEE PICKLE TOW. 

were I as fleet as the wings of the wind, 
In chace of the roes when springing, Love, 

At the sound of your voice I would loiter behind, 
So sweet is the charm of your singing, Love. 

1 heard it, I fear'd it, I knew that soft charm 
"Would slacken my speed, and enervate my arm ; 

See the deer, drawing near, now no more in alarm, 
Secure through the woodlands are springing, Love. 

While Echo, delighted, repeats the sweet sound, 

And rocks with the music are ringing, Love j 
The hinds with their fawns come enraptur'd around, 

And lose all their fears in your singing, Love.* 
If Flora to Mora can gather the deer, 

All heedless of danger, her accents to hear j 
While gazing and praising that melody clear, 

Can Colin his bow be stringing, Love ? 

Let my arrows be scatter'd, my bow be unstrung, 

And the deer all in safety be springing, Love ; 
Let me gaze on your eyes, and attend to your tongue, 

While the woodlands in concert are ringing, Love. 
While pining and twining the chaplet for me, 

Thy hunter still chases a vision of thee ; 
My youth and my truth from inconstancy free, 

1 vow'd to you at the beginning, Love. 



* When the maids, milking the cows in distant glens, sing 
Chro Challin, or any other melody, the deer frequently draw near 
to listen. 



3 8 . C O L I N ' S A JV S WK K . 

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THE BOEDER WIDOW'S LAMENT. 

FROM 

SIR WALTER SCOTT'S MINSTRELSY, 

AND HERE PCRLISHED BY PERMISSION. 



This affecting Fragment, obtained by Sir Walter from recitation, is said to re- 
late to the execution of Cockbbrn of Henderland, a Border Freebooter, hanged 
over the Gate of his own Tower by James V. in the course of that memorable 
Expedition in 1529, winch was fatal to Johnie Armstrong, Adam Scott of 
Tushielaw, and many other Marauders. 

]Vf t love built me a bonnie bower, 
And clad it a' wi' lily flower ; 
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, 
Than my true Love he built for me. 

There came a man by middle day, 
He spied his sport and went away ; 
And brought the king at dead of night, 
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. 

He slew my knight, to me sae dear, 
He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear ; 
My servants all for life did flee, 
And left me in extremitie ! 

I sew'd his sheet, making my mane j 
I watch'd the corpse, myself alane j 
I watch'd his body, night and day j 
No living creature came that way ! 

I took his body on my back, 

And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; 

I digg'd a grave, and laid him in, 

And happ'd him with the sod sae green ! 

But think nae ye my heart was sair, 
When I laid the mould on his yellow hair ! 
O think nae ye my heart was wae, 
When I turn'd about awa to gae ? 

Nae living man I'll love again, 
Since that my lovely knight is slain ; 
Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair 
I'll chain my heart for evermair ! 

VOL. IV. K 



40 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 



WRITTEN 



BY LORD BYRON, 



AND HERE PUBLISHED BY PERMISSION. 



The Air composed for the words by the Editor of this Work, 
1822. 

X saw thee weep,— the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 

And then methought it did appear, 

A violet dropping dew. 

I saw thee smile, — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceas'd to shine ; 

It could not match the Living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 

Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 

Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 

Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



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Had we never lov'd so kindly, 
Had we never lov'd .so l.lindlv, 
IVcvi ■!■ met, hi never i>.ut<<l, 
\n li.nl ne'er been hiolicll hearted. 
Fan (hee well (hui'l fil'M .ml fairest, 
Fare (hee well vliou be.sl and dearest; 
One fond kiss and then we .sever, 
One farewell, alas! for ever. 

HI HNS . 



4<2. O MIGHT I HIT MY PATRIC 



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42 

O MIGHT I BUT MY PATRICK LOVE. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. 

The Air communicated without a name to the Editor, 

W might I but my Patrick love ! 

My mother scolds severely, 
And tells me I shall wretched prove, 

Because I love him dearly ! 
In vain she rates me o'er and o'er 

With lessons cold and endless ; 
It only makes me love him more, 
To find him poor and friendless. 
Oh ! Patrick fly from me, 
Or I am lost for ever — 
Oh ! Fortune kinder be, 
Nor thus two Lovers sever. 

What bliss, to me my Patrick cries, 

In splendour and in riches ? 
He says, we love too little prize, 

That gold too much bewitches ! 
More blest the lark, tho' hard its doom 

Whene'er the winter rages, 
Than birds, he says, of finer plume, 

That mope in gilded cages. 
Oh ! Patrick fly from me, &c. 

He tells me when the bosom's warm, 

We mock the storm that's blowing, 
That honest hearts can take no harm 

Tho' hard the world be going. 
He says, — ah me \ I'm sore afraid 

Lest I from duty faulter ; 
I wish he could as soon persuade 

The mother as the daughter 
Oh ! Patrick fly from me, &c. 



43 

THE MORNING AIR PLAYS ON MY 
FACE. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 

BY JOANNA BAILLIE. 

The Air communicated without a name to the Editor. 

•1 he morning air plays on my face, 
And, through the grey mist peering, 
* The soften'd silv'ry sun I trace, 

Wood, wild, and mountain cheering. 
Larks aloft are singing, 
Hares from covert springing, 
And o'er the fen the wild duck's brood 
Their early way are winging. 

Bright ev'ry dewy hawthorn shines, 

Sweet ev'ry herb is growing, 
To him whose willing heart inclines 
The way that he is doing. 

Fancy shews to me, now, 
"What will shortly be, now, 
I'm patting at her door poor Tray, 
Who fawns and welcomes me now. 

How slowly moves the rising latch ! 

How quick my heart is beating ! 
That worldly dame is on the watch 
To frown upon our meeting. 

• Fy ! why should I mind her, 
See, who stands behind her, 
Whose eye doth on her trav'ller look 
The sweeter and the kinder. 

Oh ! ev'ry bounding step I take, 
Each hour the clock is telling, 
Bears me o'er mountain, bourne, and brake, 
Still nearer to her dwelling. 

Day is shining brighter, 
Limbs are moving lighter, 
While ev'ry thought to Nora's love 
But binds my faith the tighter. 



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And if no bus'ness calls from home, 
Around the wheeling globe to roam, 
We to .some flow'ry meadow stray, 
And .sing and dance the night away, 

Around our Fairy— Queen . 
1 hen we our mushroom board prepare, 
Vol; 4. 



The gather'd st\i i Is of flow'rs our fare, 
The dewy nectar round distilling, 
All our hair—hell goblets filling; 

Good night, good night: 
Good night we say, then sink to rest 
Upon some lily's downy breast, 

R,v mortal eves unseen. 



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46 



CHILING O'GUIRY. 



THE SONG WRITTEN FOR TfllS WORK 



BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. 



Jtut round the bright wine, for my bosom is gay, 
The night may have sunshine as well as the day ; 
Oh welcome the hours ! when dear visions arise 
To melt my kind spirit, and charm my fond eyes. 
When wine to my head can its wisdom impart, 
And love has its promise to make to my heart ; 
When dim in far shade sink the spectres of care, 
And I tread a bright world with a footstep of air. 

Yes, Mirth is my goddess, — come round me, ye few, 
Who have wit for her worship, I doat upon you : 
Delighted with life, like a swallow on wing, 
I catch ev'ry pleasure the current may bring: 
The feast and the frolic, the masque and the ball, 
Dear scenes of enchantment ! I come at your call j 
Let me meet the gay beings of beauty and song, 
And let Erin's good humour be found in the throng. 

If life be a dream — 'tis a pleasant one sure, 

And the dream of to-night we at least may secure ; 

If life be a bubble, tho' better I deem, 

Let us light up its colours by gaiety's beam. 

Away with cold vapours — I pity the mind 

That nothing but dullness and darkness can find : 

Give me the kind spirit that laughs on its way, 

And turns thorns into roses, and winter to May. 

VOL. IV. L 



47 



THE COTTAGE MAID. 



THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK, 



ST WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. 



I envy not the splendour fine 

That glitters in Sir Watkyn's hall ; 
I ask not for the gems that shine 

On lady fair at Wynnstay ball : 
I wish but for a ribbon gay, 

"Which I might on a Sunday wear ; 
Unseen which 1 might kiss, and say, 

'Twas Owen's gift from Wrexham fair. 

O Owen I believe thee kind, 

And love is surely on thy tongue — 
But would that I could read thy mind, 

For hope betrays the maiden young. 
Last night I saw thee loth to part, 

I watch'd thy looks — so bright the moon- 
And know not but my simple heart 

Might own too much, or own too soon. 

Unhappy fate of doubtful maid ! 

Her tears may fall, her bosom swell, 
But even to the desart shade 

She never must her secret tell. 
And is it Love, — his softer mien ? 

And is it Love, — his whisper low ? 
And does he much, or nothing mean ? 

Ah ! she that loves, how can she know ! 

With Owen I the dance have led, 

And then I thought that sure he seem'd 
To dance with lighter, livelier tread — 

Oh ! was it so, — or have I dream'd ? 
To day he goes with merry glee, 

And all are going to the fair — 
O may I by some ribbon see- 

He thought of one that was not there. 



47. 



THE COTTAGE MAID. 

Welch . 



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48. 



THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH. B^h«>r U . 




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48 



THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH. 



THE SONG WRITTEN" FOB THIS WOIiK 



BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BARONET. 



Ethelfrid, or Olfrid, King of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in G15, and Brockmael, a British prince 
advancing to relieve it, the Religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in procession to pray for 
the success of their countrymen. But the British being- totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the 
sword, and destroyed their monasteiy. The tune to which these verses are adapted, is called the Monks' March, 
and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession. 



VY hen the heathen trumpet's clang 
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, 
Veiled nun and friar grey 
March'd from Bangor's fair abbaye : 
High their holy anthem sounds, 
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, 
Floating down the sylvan Dee, 
miserere Domine ! 



Bands that masses only sung, 
Hands that censers only swung, 
Met the northern bow and bill, 
Heard the war-cry, wild and shrill : 
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand, 
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, 
Woe to Saxon cruelty, 







Do 



On the long procession goes, 
Glory round their crosses glows, 
And the virgin-mother mild 
In their peaceful banner smil'd ; 
Who could think such saintly band 
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand ? 
Such was the divine decree, 
miserere Domine! 



Weltering amid warriors slain, 
Spurned by steeds with bloody mane, 
Slaughter'd down by heathen blade, 
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid : 
Word of parting rest unspoke, 
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke ; 
For their souls for charity, 
Sing, miserere Domine ! 



Bangor ! o'er the murder wail, 
Long thy ruins told the tale, 
Shatter'd tower and broken arch 
Long recall'd the woeful march :* 
On thy shrine no tapers burn, 
Never shall thy priests return ; 
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee 
miserere Domine! 



* William of Malmesbury says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness 
1o the desolation occasioned by the massacre ; — " tot semiruti parictes ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticuum, tanla 
turba ruderum quantum vix alibi cernas. 



49 



MALTRAETH. 

THE SONG WRITTEN FOR THIS WORK 
BY JOANNA BAILLIE. 



I've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake, 
Nor coin in my coffer, to keep me awake ; 
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree, 
Yet the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. 

Softly tapping at eve to her window I came, 

And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame ; 

For shame, silly Lightfoot, what is it to thee, 

Tho' the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me ? 

Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn, 
Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn ; 
Scoff on my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee, 
When the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. 

The farmer rides proudly to market and fair, 
And the clerk at the ale-house still claims the great chair } 
But of all our proud fellows the proudest I'll be, 
While the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. 

For blythe as the urchin at holiday play, 
And meek as a matron in mantle of gray ; 
And trim as the lady of noble degree, 
Is the Maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me. 



49. 



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HAPPINESS LOST. h., v i, 

The Air i:i>mjii.\i .1 li\ d.V. n> Imitation r.l tht- W< li-h. 




thou^t.l loo hi^h minded, I cannot at pleasure he false and lie true 



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Yes once I have lo\'<l tliee — have lo\M thee sincerely; 

IVfy heart was nii^h hroken — I now am serene: — 
These tears — these weak tears — they may tell thee too clearly, 

If hlesl in thy love, that too h'lest 'I had heen . 

I will not disturh what contented reposes — 
I cannot revive uh.il in death has deeav'd .— 

Go rudely (thou may'sl.1 trample down the sweet roses, 

But wonder not then iT tomorrow thev fade. 

The Henry I lov'd like a vision departed, 

While fix'd were my eyes, and while rapUrrYl mv view'! 
I saw him how lovely,'— 1" thought him kind — hearted ; 
Oh, lost', and for ever— for ever adieu- 

W? SMYTH ESQ 1 : 



THE MELODIES, 

VOLUME FOURTH. 



INDEX TO THEIR NAMES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER. 



THE MELODIES, ACCORDING TO THE PRINCIPLES STATED IN THE DISSERTATION, MAY BE 
CLASSED IN THE FOLLOWING MANNER : THOSE MARKED 

A, as the oldest, and of remote antiquity. 

B, as the productions of more recent periods. 

C, as modern productions, not older than the 18th century. 



Names of the Meloihes. *£££££* Page. 

Chiling O'Guiry . ... Irish 46 

Clerk Richard , &c.' (by R. A. Smith) C 55 

Crochallin Highland 58 

Fair Helen of Kirkconnel .... A 21 

Glenara C 2 

Happiness lost, (by G. Thomson) . C 50 

Hooly and Fairly B 5 

If a body meet a body A 50 

I saw thee weep, (by G. Thomson) C 40 

Jenny's bawbee, (Dance tune) . . C 56 

Johnnie Cope B 22 

Johnnie Faw, or the Gipsey Laddie A 55 

John o' Badenyon, (Dance tune) . B 28 

Katherine Ogie A 8 

Kellyburn braes A 27 

Lord Balgonie's favourite . . . . C 10 
Lord Ullin's daughter, (by G. Thom- 
son) C 1 

Lough Sheeling Irish 41 

Maltraetb. Welsh 49 

Muirland Willie A 25 

My love she's but a lassie yet . . B 26 

My tocher's the jewel A 20 

O bonny lass will you lye in a barrack B 19 



.. , . Marks above 

Names of the Meiodies. refeiTed ^ 

O'er the hills and far away . . . B 
O might I but my Patrick love . Irish 

Phely and Willy B 

Planxty Kelly ...... Irish 

Pull away jolly boys ..... B 

Rothiemurchus Rant .... Highland 

Tak' your auld cloak about ye . B 

Thou art gane awa frae me, Mary . C 
The blue bell of Scotland . . . . B 
The Border widow's lament ... A 
The Braes of Ballochmyle (By Allan 

Mastcrlori) C 

The cottage maid Welsh 

The East nook of Fife, (Dance tune) B 
The Flowers of the Forest . . . B 

The Gaberlunzie man B 

The Hopeless lover . . . . ., . B 
The Lament of Flora Macdonald . C 

The Lea rigg B 

The Maid that tends the goats . . B 
The Monks of Bangor's march ■ . . Welsh 
The morning air plays on my face Irish 
The rock and a wee pickle tow - . B 
The Troubadour, (by G. Thomson) C 
Tibby Fowler A 

Willy was a wanton wag .... A 



Page. 

6 
42 

5 
44 
15 
29 

4 
25 
18 

59 

12 
47 
24 
11 
51 

7 
15 
54 
16 
48 
45 
58 

9 
52 

17 



THE POETRY, 



VOLUME FOURTH. 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINE OF EACH OF THE SONGS. 



FIRST LTKES. 



AUTHORS. 



PAGE. 



FIRST LINES. 



AUTHORS. 



PAGE. 



A chieftain, &c. . . . 
Again rejoicing nature, &c. 
Auld gudeman, &c. 
A wee bird came, &c. . 



Campbell, T. Esq. 1 
Burns ... 1 
Bo swell, Sir A. 24 
Anon. . • . 35 



Fairest maid on Devon banks Burns . ■ 
Far o'er yon bills, &c. . Hogg, J. . 

Glowing with love, &c. Scott, Sir W. 



29 
15 



Harken, and I will tell, &c. Anon. ... 25 

Hark the mavis evening sang Hums ... 16 

Hech what a change, &c. Boswe/l, Sir A. 27 

Here we go upon the tide Hogg ... 15 

How can my poor heart, &c. Burns ... 6 

I envy not the splendour, &c. Smith, IF. Esq. 47 

I met four chaps, &c. . . Boswell, Sir A. 56 



In winter when the rain, 


&c. Anon. . . . 


4 


I've heard them lilting 


. Anon. . . . 


11 


I've no sheep, &c. . . 


. Baillie, Joanna 


49 


I've seen the smiling . 


Cockbum, Mrs 


11 


I saw thee weep, &c. . 


. Byron, Lord . 


40 


I wish I were, &c. . . 


. Anon. . 


21 



Lassie wi' the lint-white, &c. Burns 



. . 29 



My Colin, lov'd Colin 
My love built me, &c. 



Grant, Mrs . 57 
Anon. ... 39 



Now spring has clad, &c. Burns ... 7 

O heard you yonPibrach, &.c.Campbell,T. Esq. 2 
O meikle thinks my love, &c. Bums ... 20 
O might I but, &c. . . Smith, IF. Esq. 42 
O neighbours what had, &c. Baillie, Joanna 5 



Phely happy be that day Burns ... 5 

O say my sweet Nan, &c. Maeneill . . 19 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, Bums ... 50 

O were I as fleet, &c. . . Grant, Mrs . 3S 

O were I laid, &c. . . . Ditto . . . 21 

O wert thou in the cauldest Burns ... 26 

O where, tell me where, . Grant, Mrs . 18 

O might I but, &c. . . Smyth, TF. Esq. 42 

Put round the bright wine, Smyth, TF. Esq. 46 



Sir John Cope trod the North, Anon. 



22 



There was a lass, &c. . . Bums '. . 17 
There were two who loved, &c. Motherwell, TF. 55 
Thou art gane awa, &c. . Anon. ... 25 
The budding thorn, &c. Bichardson, J. Esq. 20 
The Catrine woods, &c. . Burns ... 12 
The gypsies came to our, &c Anon. ... 55 
The pawky auld carle, . James V. . . 51 
The smiling plains, &c. . Falconer, W. . 25 
The morning air, &c. . . Baillie, Joanna 45 
Tibbie Fowler o' the glen, Ditto ... 32 

Up amang yon cliiTy rocks, Dudgeon . . 16 

When first I came to be a man, Skinner, Rev. J. 28 
When o'er the hill, &c. . . Bums . . 54 

Where Esk its silver current 12 

Willie was a wanton wag, 17 

Willie Wastle dwelt on Tweed, Burns . . 52 
When the heathen trumpets, Scott, Sir TF. 4S 

Ye banks & braes and streams, Bums . . 8 
Ye braes of Touch, . . . Grant, Mrs 34 



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